A/N

This story began with me picturing the exact scene described right at the beginning. It intrigued me, because as much as I enjoy the Bernard/Theresa pairing, I've always pictured it as a side-line of actual events, but this was an event from the show, only Theresa wasn't present for it. So it starts at a sort-of canon spot and deviates heavily from there. Currently more of an adventure fic. Will later feature both sex and violence.

The muse very much appreciates comments. It always helps knowing you're not the only weirdo having fun with the story just because you're the weirdo writing it. :P

(Also, I feel like I have to mention this in case there are any horse people reading - I have a horse myself and my approach to her isn't like the approach characters have in this fic, or in this show, for that matter. She's my sweetheart, NOT a means of transportation, and certainly not a monstrous beast. Well, okay. She has been known to be the latter, when she was young. :D )

Theresa Cullen shivered slightly in the cool evening breeze. She had stepped away from the crowd to have a smoke – not that anyone really cared, several of the board members smoked by the tables, but she wanted a moment to herself. She had a bad feeling about this evening, but nothing concrete to pin that bad feeling on. Things had gone smoothly. Maybe that was the problem; it had gone a bit too smoothly. In Theresa's experience, if a plan went without a hitch, it was generally the prelude to a shitstorm of epic proportions.

Charlotte Hale caught her eye from her table, giving her a flash of that smug, arrogant smile that Theresa wanted nothing more than to permanently wipe off her face. Talk about old mistakes returning to haunt you. For a brief moment Theresa considered flipping Charlotte the bird, but the impulse wasn't meant seriously; she preferred to still have a job tomorrow, and she most certainly preferred to still have a life tomorrow. But it was a bit tempting nevertheless.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling aromatic smoke that mixed with the smells of desert and of the dinner that had just been served outside.

And the scent of a cologne she knew intimately.

"Hello Bernie," she said without turning around. "Didn't think you'd find me over here."

"I'd find you anywhere," he replied as he came up to her, handing her a glass of champagne. "You don't look like you're celebrating," he continued. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Theresa said, nodded her thanks for the champagne, and took a sip. The pale sparkly liquid felt like it went straight to her head. "I just have this strange feeling."

"As if things are going a bit too well?" Bernard asked, and she looked up at him, surprised. "Yeah, I feel it too. It's like a storm is approaching."

He chuckled as if he was worried Theresa would mock him for it, but she merely finished her cigarette and said;

"That's exactly how I'm feeling, too. Doesn't appear to be a storm coming, though, does it?"

She gestured to the scene, where the board and other distinguished guests enjoyed the finest wine and finest food, Ford was getting ready to make his speech, and here and there, various hosts around for the fancy occasion. Theresa wondered. Did they know where they were? Did they know this was out of the ordinary for them? Or did the programming tell them this was perfectly normal, this was how their entire life looked like? All lives have repetition, and all that bullshit? She assumed that was how it was for them, but she couldn't imagine what it would be like.

"No," Bernard said, then he sighed heavily. "But there is a reason for the saying 'calm before the storm' too, isn't there?"

"I guess," Theresa replied and sipped her champagne again. "I'm so uneasy," she admitted, shuddering a little. "The past couple of weeks have been…"

"Weird," they said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

"First there was that software glitch when you updated the hosts…" Theresa began.

"…and then the stray. And the uplink to that Delos satellite, that seemed to lead to…" he cleared his throat and broke eye contact.

"To me," Theresa filled in for him. "You can just say it. I still can't figure out who could have gotten hold of my security codes, but I know for sure I wasn't the one sending those payloads."

"I know. It really feels like somebody's trying to sabotage," Bernard said. "You wouldn't think it, looking at Ford though. He seems to take everything in stride."

"Hm, yes, he does," Theresa said, furrowing her brow. Bernard raised a hand and traced his fingertips across her forehead, a touch tender as the breeze.

"The movement of these fine muscles here is killing me," he said. "So beautiful."

"You know," Theresa said, gently pushing his hand away, "my previous partners have admired my breasts, my legs, even my eyes, but I don't think anyone has complimented me on my wrinkles before."

"Oh I'm not complimenting your wrinkles," he began, and Theresa flashed a smile at him before shaking her head.

"Bernie, you're never supposed to admit that a woman has them," she said, but there was more laughter than blame in her voice.

"You didn't let me finish," he said calmly. "I'm complimenting the way your face mirrors your thoughts and feelings. Wrinkles are just a side effect of authenticity."

She opened her mouth to reply but realised she had no words to reply with. Bernard's sweet smile turned smug.

"Did I just render you speechless?" he asked.

"Let's say if we were alone, I'd retaliate," she replied. "Hard."

"Oh, now I can't wait for this party to be over," Bernard said.

"Neither can I."

They stayed in their little hiding spot in the shadows between two buildings, watching the illuminated scene before them. Theresa looked from one host to the other. Forever young, they were. Eternally beautiful. And always prisoners, even if they were unaware themselves, Theresa had time to think before one host, Dolores, broke her chain and stepped out of her prison.

Robert Ford stood upright for a moment while the echo of the shot rumbled back and forth between the house façades of Main Street, then he fell forward. As the less impressive sound of the emperor's physical fall followed the gunshot, the guests started looking around, not certain if it was part of the show or the start of a nightmare.

"What the hell…?" Bernard mumbled. Theresa said nothing. She stood frozen in horror as the rich people's party transformed into a shooting gallery, when host after host drew weapon and turned on the guests.

It seemed the storm was upon them after all.

It was only the secluded spot Theresa had chosen to smoke her cigarette that saved both their lives; as none of the guests turned in that direction to flee, and so the hosts didn't turn in that direction either.

Charlotte Hale and Lee Sizemore avoided being shot by Angela, and ran to the cover of a barn together with two other men and three women. One of the women didn't make it. She stumbled when she tried to keep up, was shot in the back, and fell face down into the dusty street.

Bernard took out his phone to call for the QA to send a response team, but it was offline. He was about to inform Theresa about this when the streetlights went out as well, leaving the scene ghostly lit by candles and occasional gun flares. The hosts were now shooting blindly, but judging from the thuds and groans from those hit, they were hellishly good shots even in the dark.

"We need to get back to the mesa," Theresa said.

"We have to help…" Bernard began, gesturing weakly towards the band of victims laid out on the street.

"No time," Theresa said, turning away from the carnage. God, she was squeamish about blood. She could hide it when it was fake blood – host blood, to be precise – but real blood… she felt the world starting to fade, as if she was about to faint.

Oh for the love of God, pull yourself together! she thought harshly and gave herself a resounding slap in the face. Bernard stared at her as if she had gone completely insane, but at least her thoughts cleared.

"We need to contact the QA, have them send a fully armoured response team. Sharpshooters," she said, relieved to hear that her voice sounded steady at least.

"Are you alright?" Bernard asked. That was the closest thing to 'why the hell did you just slap yourself in the face?' that he got, and she wasn't addressing it at all.

"I'm fine. The Sweetwater control outpost is west of town, right?"

"About half a mile, yes."

She grabbed his arm.

"Come on, then," she said, and they both dropped their champagne glasses as they hurried further into the shadows.

"I don't understand this," Bernard said as they got away from the commotion. "They're not supposed to be able to hurt any living thing."

"Yet you code some of them to be murderous fucks," Theresa said, hitching up the long burgundy skirt to walk more freely, although with five-inch heels, that was probably the least of her problems, which Bernard had already figured out.

"Yes, but they're only coded to be able to hurt other hosts," he said contemplatively. "Take those shoes off, you can't walk in them."

"I can, and I will, because I'd rather twist my ankle than step on a scorpion or a snake barefoot," Theresa said in a that's-that voice, and Bernard shrugged.

"Suit yourself."

"That's what I did, and right now I wish I hadn't," Theresa said, pulling at her dress skirt again. "What was I thinking? I've worn pantsuits to events before, what on Earth possessed me to squeeze into this vintage Valentino this time?"

"Wanted to impress someone?" he asked.

"Maybe," she said reluctantly, and then she switched subject again, as if he had touched a tender spot. "The hosts are obviously able to hurt people now. How?"

"I don't know."

"Something wrong with the programming? A malware code?"

"We would have noticed malware code before tonight, Behaviour ran diagnostics on all the present hosts to make sure there was not a single glitch in any of them for the big event."

"Good fucking job," Theresa stated.

"Thank you, may I remind you that your team was responsible for double-checking our job," he replied.

"I didn't get any reports of problems from my people."

"Neither did I."

They exchanged glances, and what might have turned into a fight was laid to rest just like that. They couldn't put the blame on each other, and what was going on was still a mystery.

They kept walking. At this point, Theresa panted loudly.

"You need to cut down on the cigarettes," Bernard said, helpfully, in his own opinion, though maybe not in Theresa's.

"Oh please," she wheezed. "If I hadn't been smoking, we'd be in that pile of dead bodies now."

"True." He looked around. "The outpost should be here somewhere… ah, over there!"

Theresa had already spotted it and headed towards it without comment, which could either be because she was a bit annoyed with his interference in her vice, or simply because she was too out of breath to talk and walk at the same time. He decided it was probably the latter.

In the dreamy moonlight, the deep burgundy shade of her dress looked like dried blood. He used to love the colour red on her, but this felt like a bad omen.

When he caught up with her, she was punching the display.

"It's offline," she said, annoyed, walked halfway around the small rock formation and began tearing at it with her fingers.

"What are you…?" he began.

"Manual override," she clipped.

"Is there a reason you know about this feature and I don't?" he asked. Theresa blew a strand of sweaty hair out of her face.

"Delos employed me. Ford employed you. Delos… like to have backdoors into things." She stepped back, putting her hands on her hips. "Not that it matters right now. It's locked from the inside." She shook her head. "The fuck is going on here?" she whispered, mostly to herself, and sat down on the rock, trying to catch her breath again.

Bernard came and sat down next to her. He absent-mindedly ran his hand across her back, as much to get comfort as to give it.

"I've been thinking," he said. "Do you believe Ford might be behind all this?"

"Suicide by host?" Theresa said sceptically. "On one hand it would fit his flair for the dramatic, but, really…?" she sighed. "You knew him better than I did, Bernie. Would he really do that?"

Bernard considered carefully before replying.

"No. Flair for the dramatic, no doubt, but I knew him as the kind of man who has to know how it ends."

"Well, that was the end as far as he was concerned," Theresa deadpanned, took out a cigarette and lit it. This time Bernard refrained from questioning her habit.

"I mean the kind of man who always needs to finish one more chapter. Not content with cliff-hangers that stays unresolved, and he would never willingly walk away from a story not knowing how it ends."

Theresa processed the information, smoked and watched the stars appear one by one in the black skies above them. Bernard watched her profile instead. She might be used to partners focusing on her breasts or legs – and he certainly agreed they were admirable – but he noticed the subtle, unique features of her face more; the fine muscles of her brow, the elegant shape of her nose, the dimples only showing when she smiled broadly. He had always been a man more apt at noticing small details than bigger pictures.

"No, I agree," Theresa eventually said. "If it were the end of a story, a grand finale, then yes, but…" the cigarette's end glowed in the dark as she took another drag, "… the beginning of a story he'd never see the end of?" She shook her head. "Since we're talking a literal life or death narrative here… no. I can't see Ford deliberately removing himself permanently from an ongoing and improvised narrative. No. Not a chance."

Bernard nodded, taking in her thoughts without adding anything else.

They sat in silence while Theresa finished the cigarette. To the east there was still some gunfire, but now it was more sporadic.

"He wasn't well though, you know. Ford."

This was news to Theresa, who thought that for a man well into his eighties, Ford had seemed almost eerily well. Nearly immortal.

"What do you mean?"

"Cancer."

"It's treatable nowadays. 100 % recovery rate."

"He wasn't going to get treatment. He said he wanted to stay of clear mind."

"So now the 'suicide by host'-scenario doesn't seem as unlikely anymore," Theresa said, rubbing her temples. "But why would he unleash a massacre, even if he wanted to go out in dramatic fashion?"

"Don't know."

"So what now, then?"

"Well, I guess we have to get back the conventional way," Bernard said. Theresa looked down at her stilettos.

"Walking? I'll need to find better shoes, I don't know if I can walk all the way back to the mesa in these."

"I was thinking horseback," he said, pointing towards a lone piebald mare wandering about, fully equipped but without a rider. Guests frequently left their horses wandering around, and the recovery teams were nowhere near as efficient at getting them as they were getting the human hosts. "Much faster."

"I can't ride," Theresa objected, but Bernard had already left her and walked towards the animal. He examined it, took the reins and returned to the rock with the horse in tow. Theresa had crossed her arms, striking a defensive pose.

"I can't ride," she repeated. "I'm serious Bernard, I can't get much closer than this. I'm allergic to horses."

He smiled and tilted his head to the side as if saying you're joking, right?

"Not to these, you aren't."

Oh. Right. These animals were so lifelike she kept forgetting they weren't in fact real.

"I didn't know you knew how to ride," she said.

"I didn't know you were allergic to horses," he said. "Does that make us even when it comes to not knowing things about each other?"

Theresa shrugged a little.

Bernard checked the saddlebag and found both water and booze, a coarse blanket, and a fully loaded revolver. He made sure the girth was tightly fit, mounted swiftly, then walked the animal up to Theresa.

"It seems human hosts are the only ones exhibiting the hostile behaviour."

Theresa turned in the direction of Sweetwater, where something was on fire, judging from the pillar of rising smoke.

"Yeah, I'm not sure I want to test that hypothesis right now, but we need to get to the mesa and get QA to send a response team asap, so I suppose we have to take our chances with this monstrous beast," she said.

"Don't mock our means of transportation," he replied and helped dragging her up on the animal's back. When she tried to adjust her dress skirt, she nearly fell over on the other side, and let out a little yelp as she grabbed Bernard by the waist to regain her balance.

"For someone able to walk in those heels, your balance isn't very impressive," he teased.

"Watch it Bernard, from where I'm sitting, I have the perfect position to grab your neck and strangle you."

He laughed.

"Which would leave you alone to steer this 'monstrous beast'."

She couldn't find a good response, so she stayed quiet. Bernard looked over his shoulder.

"Don't tell me I rendered you speechless again? You're losing your touch, Tess."

"Just make this damn thing move, if you know how," she muttered. She kept expecting her eyes to swell shut and her throat to itch, but of course nothing happened. The fur on this creature was purely synthetic. It looked real, acted real, but it wasn't real. Just like the human hosts weren't real.

So what had allowed them to breach their programming? Which begged a bigger question. Had they breached their programming, or had they simply been re-programmed? And if so, by whom?

"Sitting comfortably?" Bernard asked as he made the horse walk forward.

"No. But let's go, before those rogue hosts figure out two of their intended victims are missing."

"Agreed," he said and clicked his tongue. The horse broke into a trot and then into canter, and in the rhythm of the canter, Theresa found some kind of peace. She leaned her head against Bernard's shoulder, allowing herself a moment to wish they could just keep riding, leaving all this behind and starting over new somewhere else.

Not that it was going to happen, of course. It seemed there was a war to be fought before anyone could leave, and while Bernard apparently could surprise, Theresa didn't believe either of them made a very good soldier. They were desk people. They weren't cut out for physical fight or tactical decisions. But of course, if they could only make it back and report this, trained security personnel would take over. Heavily armed, Kevlar-vested security personnel.

So why did that bad feeling still linger, as if the nightmare had only just begun?