These Violent Ends
SUMMARY: Credence Barebone is the son of a wealthy business man, who has sent Credence to scope out the park for him as a potential investment. . Once there, Credence finds himself falling for Percy Graves, a host who seems determined to unravel the mysteries of his world. As Credence becomes increasingly enamoured with the charms and thrills of Westworld —and Percy — he too finds himself caught up in something much darker hiding just beneath the surface. [Based on the post by graveboner on Tumblr.]
she told me not
to step on the cracks
Credence is only a child when he's adopted by Mary Lou Barebone, a widowless preacher's wife hailing from the cult of the New Salem Philanthropic Society. She might've saved him from the hellhole of an orphanage, she tells him repeatedly, but there's only so much he can do to please and satisfy her. It should be simple: hand out flyers and come back with people who want to join. But he fails at even the simplest of that. His belt comes undone, and then –
Strike.
Strike.
Strike.
Breaking against his skin, against his back, to where he tries to muffle his cries of pain.
Strike.
Strike.
Strike.
Endless hours of pain flaring and streaking across his back, his arms, anywhere out of sight where questions won't be asked. He counts each strike aloud. Sometimes he wishes he was already dead.
But he can't.
He can't die.
There's Modesty. She's only eight and young, not easily succumbing to the wickedness of adulthood and wise enough to know better than to get in the way of Ma's wrath. Ma hasn't corrupted her just yet. Not like his other sister Chastity. She's still curious, still young, still a child. A child who keeps witnessing things she shouldn't be seeing.
Modesty looks nothing like him, sporting blue eyes and fair blond hair while he has dark eyes, hollow cheeks and an angular jawline. There's flickers of sympathy in her eyes when she tries to help him but Ma scolds her and sends her running back to her room.
She's slowly turning cold and hard and this scares Credence and all he wants to do is to protect her and Chastity.
He wants them to leave. Leave far, far away from this place as far as they can get. Away from here.
And then, he gets his chance.
Ma gets married to a man who frequents the Second Salem Church. He has odd discolored eyes and slicked blond hair. Credence thinks he comes from Germany based on the sharp and heavy accent used when accenting his words when they flow off his tongue.
It's a forward step from the world he's used to, when the man called Grindelwald invites them to live in the apartment complex near the park of Westworld. There's so much technology, so much more mysteries he can't figure out on his own, things he has no idea how to work.
Grindelwald's kind.
Charming to Credence than Ma is when they first meet him. But it's the malicious glitter in his eyes that makes Credence suspect otherwise of him, hiding behind a false facade of kindness, exuding money and power and wealth. He pretends to be naive, knowing full well that the man could do far worse to him and his sisters. It also doesn't help that Grindelwald runs his hands over Credence's thighs when Ma's not looking, whispering endless promises of nothingness to him.
He feels disgusted.
Unholy.
Unworthy.
He has been corrupted and full of sin like Ma says. A Devil hoarding sin inside of him, rendering him unfaithful and all Credence wants to do is to strip his hands into bone so he can wash this feeling away and escape into the night, where he has some supplement of quiet and peaceful to himself.
But even his dreams burden him and choke him into the fiery corruption and passion of Hell. He always known he was different. He dreams about faceless men and their touches instead of women, shuddering away the thought of Grindelwald and forces himself not to touch himself.
To lust… That is a sin. Ma will punish Credence severely if she finds out. It takes some time to force himself to relax and push the sinful thoughts of lust out of his mind and Credence opens his eyes, not ready to face another day that is sure to subject another round of unwanted suffering and abuse.
But this morning, this fateful day, none of that comes.
(He finds himself in a crossfire full of the living.
One shot from another and then it's over before he blinks.
He dies with one last apology on his lips.)
How many times have you died?
Percival Graves is a man full of wonders. Or rather, host. Because he's not really human at all. Never has been at all.
He's the one of the oldest hosts still functioning in Westworld, rebuilt time after time again, metal against metal infused underneath synthetic flesh and above milk-colored organs. A complex design built from the mind of one of the many ordinary creators working in Westworld: a collection of what makes Percy, Percival Graves. A good heart for each beat of bravery and determination surging through his veins, a sharp wit rolling off his tongue in exchange for pleasant retribution and a job done right, and quick reflexes to avoid the strings of unwanted and unfriendly criminals hanging all around him.
It's a necessary asset in an constant endless cycle of an incessant need to protect his fiancée and his town - and failing every single time and dying because of it. All 1, 839 times and yet . . . it never dulls his courage.
They never expect him to wake up.
The first time it happens, he wakes to a room full of death. There's lifeless eyes everywhere, staring into the endless void of nothingness. His own naked body is pressed against a wall of glass. His fingers press against red, so much red pouring down his chest, his stomach and he screams in agony because –
thisisntrealthisisntreal
The sound of footsteps draw his attention and he raises his head to see a face with odd moon-colored eyes the shade of ominous clouds peering down at him.
"Percival Graves." The foreigner rolls his name off his tongue as if he's done it a million times.
It's Percy, he almost snaps back irritably. Never Percival. Not unless you were asking for it.
Percy wants to know how this strange man knows his name, where the fuck he is and why he's here when he should be dead. A million questions run through the man's head which remains unanswered.
"Will we die just a little?" he asks with a sneer, without waiting for Percy's answer. "Wipe him."
(It doesn't work completely, of course.
Little fragments and jarred fumbles of memory remain embedded in his mind. And for the first time in his life, Percy Graves begins to question the nature of his reality.)
Ma insists that he wear a white hat.
For purity.
Innocence.
Obey the rules, she tells him. Then she shoves a handful of leaflets into his hand without so much of a goodbye. He lets out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and exhales carefully.
He's led into a train car, already filled with hosts and recurring guests ready to begin another chapter in their lives. When the last guests file in, there's a change in the atmosphere; the air becomes hotter - harsher almost - and the world reveals itself from behind the train's window in a moving motion of brown and green. Mountains as far and high as the eye can see, the ground filled with an envious sea of never-ending grass and an crystal blue sky as clear as day.
Credence stares in awe at the beauty of it, never taking his eyes off it. He wishes Modesty could be here to see this, experience this with him but he knows Westworld is no place to bring a child. This might be the last time he'll ever get to see something like this again so he conforms it to memory as he moves to settle in an abandoned seat, listening to high choruses of giggles and laughter of delight erupt as the train finally reaches its destination, pulling into the main square.
The guests around him chatter amongst themselves. Clearly, they're here on vacation, but him? He has a job to do.
The sun feels real, he can't help but notice that as he steps off the train, the warmth of its rays shining on his skin, the bright light momentarily blinding him when all of a sudden, a man bumps into him and angrily mutters to watch where he's going.
Credence stammers out an apology but the man ignores him, continuing in his way without another glance and Credence lowers his head in defeat. On his right, a Sheriff is rousing out a rather dramatic script about a gang leader hiding out in the mountains and wanting to organize a search party to end him one and for all. A few people seem interested, crowding around to listen. Credence, however, does not stay.
It reminds him too much of Ma. He doesn't need her breathing down his neck here of all places. No, not here.
This is Westworld. This place … If all the whispers are true, this is the place where they say dreams can come true.
Credence hopes it's true. He knows there's a chance it's a false truth, one that can be ripped away from him the moment he achieves a small moment of happiness. But he doesn't care.
He'll take whatever he can get.
"Here's to the lady with the white shoes . . ."
It's the sound of two voices mingling together in sweet harmony that reaches out to caress Credence's ears from his destinated post from a nearby restaurant called the Illvermorny. Raising his head and slowly withdrawing his outstretched hand back to his chest, he finds himself being drawn to the front entrance, hovering near the open door as guests and hosts shuffle their way in for supper.
The women singing, they could be angels, Credence thinks, with the ethereal light shining against their fair skin and bright ruby lips in contrast to their darkened background. One does sure look like she could be one, with her curled blonde hair, bright blue eyes and an flirtatious, stunning smile one could kill for. The other woman seems more timid, not quite at ease as the woman besides her, her nervousness clearly showing through linked fingers and wandering dark brown eyes, but her voice grows more confident with each piano key that plays. The women finally reach the end of their song to which they receive a pleasant round of applause from hosts and guests alike.
It suddenly occurs to Credence, that with all the things Grindelwald had mentioned to him, he has no idea how to identify who is a host and who isn't. Maybe that's the point, he thinks. If you can't tell, does it really matter in the first place?
The hunger in his stomach rumbles in response to the smell of food and cries out to be satiated. He hasn't eaten anything since this morning and Ma had told him that he would not be given food until his stack of leaflets had been depleted an sufficient amount. But what Ma doesn't know doesn't hurt her, right?
It doesn't occur to him what's happening until he finds himself reaching toward a unsupervised plate of food when a handful of gunshots ring out and chaos emerges from the center of it all. Guests and hosts scatter for cover, rushing out in a large frantic stampede toward freedom and escape, screaming in fear.
Credence doesn't like crowds - they make him feel nervous and claustrophobic and then he's confined to a single point on the ground to where he can't breathe. He can feel their bodies slamming against his, hard bones colliding against his fragile ones, darkening the bruises on his skin as they push and shove past him but he can't bring himself to move.
"Move, boy!"
He can imagine Ma yelling at him for being worthless, feel the sharp sting of his belt as it leaves dripping trails of deep crimson ribbons in its wake. His back aches with the sudden flaring of phantom pain.
There's bodies flying, crashing hard into the dirt underneath them as they try to flee, falling under the weight of the bullets whizzing through the air. Their eyes see nothing, staring into emptiness, devoid of all life as they bare into his own. They whisper: Please. Join us.
"Get of the way!"
He's violently shoved aside, sending his leaflets scattering across the ground and before he knows it, he's being lifted up from his underarms, being dragged to safety. He's still in shock before he notices the bronze-haired man standing next to him, thin brows curved in an expression Credence doesn't know that well but suspects: concern.
He's not sure why this man rescued him or why he's done it in the first place. Besides, why would this man be concerned about him at all? Unless Ma sent this man to watch him, to make sure he wouldn't stray from his path.
". . . all right?"
"Y-yes," he quickly replies. The man lifts up his hand and Credence automatically flinches and shrinks away, fearing the strike of punishment that is waiting for him. But it never comes.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the man continues in his soft British lilt as he takes a step back. The man looks back repeatedly toward the restaurant as they watch the angry customer continue his rampage. The customer tries to jam in more bullets into the barrel and in that moment of silence, Credence watches helplessly as the flirtatious blonde from earlier scrambles out from behind an overturned table, tugging the brunette woman in tow, their heels clacking dangerously against the wood floor as they both make a run for it.
Credence knows he should do something. Escort them to safety at least. But he doesn't and he can't because he knows he's too weak to do anything about it. And besides, he knows he'll probably get killed in the process. Whether that's a blessing or a curse, he doesn't know.
"You can do it, Tina. Come on. I'll catch you," the man mumbles softly. He's edging toward the Illvermorny entrance, arms outstretched slightly as if he's ready to catch her. Their pace quickens and so does the man's; the blonde lets out a small grunt as another gunshot sounds, a gaping hole of red forming in the middle of her forehead, the force spinning her around like a top, jerking her hand away from her companion, who wails in horror, "Queenie!"
Queenie falls and the other woman - Tina, Credence guesses - tries to help her, trying desperately to stop the bleeding through shaking fingers. Tears are streaming down her face and realizing that the customer is training his gun on her, she picks herself up, scrambling to her feet once more. She sees Credence and the man standing in front of him and hope flashes across her face. Tina looks back - a mistake. The customer advances, raising his gun toward her.
For a brief shining moment, the man's and Tina's fingertips touch before she lets out a pained scream when the customer fires a bullet through her shoulder, then her chest. The man in front of him freezes, his dark brown eyes glistening with the smallest hint of tears in his eyes, grief flickering across his face as he flinches when her blood splatters on him.
"Should'a gave me my fucking milk," the customer snarls, picking up an untouched bottle of milk from the floor. He takes several long gulps. Credence watches in horror as milk begins to pour out of the customer's wounds, never breaking eye contact with him until he finishes. Milk molds with the customer's blood, dripping ominously to the floor. He sets his sights on Credence.
"Aren't ya a growing boy?"
He arrives to find bloodshed in the wake of the gods, blood staining the streets of his beloved town, countless of innocents lying on the ground. He recognizes familiar faces when he passes, a few of whom are friends or neighbors or fellow acquaintances he's never bothered to learn more about. All dead. All lying cold on the ground with their lives having been stolen from them.
His heart jumps in his throat. Tina. She'd told him she'd be singing at the Illvermorny, along with her sister Queenie tonight. He has to know she's safe. That they're both safe. Tina will never look at him the same if he lets her sister die. She'll never forgive him for that.
He urges his horse to go faster, tugging on the reins, jumping off the moment he nears the Illvermorny, bile rising in his throat, grief tugging at his heartstrings because Tina -
Tina is dead.
He's arrived too late. He couldn't save her. He'd heard the gunshots when he neared the welcome sign greeting him when he reached town, praying that it isn't anybody that he knows, drawing his gun from its holster by his hip.
A curly-haired man with freckles is cradling her in his arms in an attempt to comfort her, taking his place, and she's already gone and passed, dark brown eyes forever glazed open. Queenie, her sister, lies already dead in the entrance facedown, her blonde hair shattered and sprayed with the color of dark red and brain matter.
He sees the source of all this commotion, the one who caused all this death and chaos. It's Sam. Sam, the one who has a girlfriend named Ruby. Sam, the one who's never resorted to this sort of violence before.
Confusion and anger flares in his veins and he sees Sam aiming at his next target: a pale boy with raven hair scrambling on all fours in an desperate attempt to flee. Perhaps an another newcomer who has had the misfortune of roaming around this town on this fateful day - Percy doesn't know, he doesn't recognize him. But he knows that this boy is innocent and doesn't deserve the fate that Sam is currently hellbent of sending him upon.
There's a flash of recognition in Sam's eyes as he realizes Percy's standing there. "Ah, Graves," he sneers. "Finally gonna do your fuckin' job for once? Go on, give me your best shot. I always win. Growing boy!"
There's a maniacal look in Sam's eyes as he mutters on about needing more milk and something else in an language Percy can't identify. The two stare at each other, waiting for the other to fire the killing shot. Percy's conflicted because Sam's one of them, a resident trying to survive in this place, a good person - well, except the fact he has a missus on the side - and revenge is coursing through Percy's mind because he fucking wants to kill this man for murdering Tina, Queenie, and countless of others. He killed Tina, his fiancé. He can't forgive Sam for that.
So he pulls the trigger.
When the dark-haired man falls, that's when the world stops turning. Spotlights suddenly flood the streets and routine clean up begins once again. Guests are ushered to a new thriving section of the town, plunging themselves into the hosts' narratives or divulging themselves deeper into the world of Westworld, exploring past the town limits.
Newt Scamander watches the young man he'd rescued kneel on the ground, thin lips moving in silent prayer, hands clasped, head bowed. It's obvious the young man is a newcomer and he couldn't have picked a worse time to arrive with the new narrative Picquery has set in motion. His eyes linger on Tina's body before she's lifted onto the wagon along with her sister and the others Sam has killed. Her fingers are still linked with his and he has to gently pry them off as much as it pains him to.
"Any problems?"
Leta Lestrange approaches him from behind, dressed in appropriate attire, dropping her accent while she removes her hat. Newt briefly hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. Leta sighs in acknowledgment and then glances toward the young man with a curious look. "Who's he?"
"Newcomer."
"Ah." Leta has her lips pursed as she takes in the boy's appearance, then continues on with her thought, "Thought he was a new host at first." She sighs, inspecting the bloodshed inside the restaurant. "He really went to town didn't he? Okay . . . I'll check in with Picquery and get some more Cleaners up here. And you . . ."
She turns her head and inclines it toward the boy. Her eyes tell him one thing: fix him. And when she sees that he understands her, she gives him a smile, reaches out to squeeze his hand and pecks him on the cheek. "See you tonight."
When the man who saved his life earlier asks him if he's okay, it's the question that makes Credence think.
Nobody has ever asked this to him before, if he was okay. Nobody cared about his wellbeing except for his sisters. He thinks of Ma and Grindelwald and their false touches of affection toward him, Modesty and Chasity - but mostly toward him; how Grindelwald kept touching him without his consent, how he always seemed to be tied to conditions that never rewarded him properly back. Might there be a way back toward the way of the living without them holding him back?
A tiny surge of hope rushes inside Credence. He knows he shouldn't be trusting a stranger he's literally just met a few seconds ago. But there's something about the man who calls himself Newt Scamander that makes him want to trust him. And plus, it helps that he's probably the first person to take his feelings into consideration. He asked if it was okay for him to come over. Credence can't remember that last time someone did that - or if they ever did so in the first place. And so, with hesitation, he nods slowly in response and allows himself to be helped up.
"Thank you . . . Mr. Scamander."
"Please. Call me Newt."