The morning sun was warm and shone brightly against the buck's brown coat as he grazed on prairie grass. The northern breeze was a welcomed reprieve from the desert heat, but despite the air of serenity in the valley, the buck remained on alert. One ear was pointed toward the tree line, and his eye never left the doe who hid there. Little did he know that three gods watched from the cliffside, concealed among the foliage; they held his fate in their hands as blithely as they held their hunting rifles. When the small stone struck his flank, it startled him to attention, seemingly having come from nowhere. With only a cursory scan of the area and a warning snort, he bounded toward the cover of the forest.

Synchronously, a shot rang out. The bullet struck the ground, a cloud of dust and dirt chunks the only evidence of thwarted carnage.

"Shit man! You fucking kidding me? What happened this time?!"

"Damn Marcus, you really suck at this! They're not even real animals, shit!"

"I dunno, man. It's like they know I'm about to take a shot, for real."

"Get the fuck outta here, man. You just a bad shot."

Unbeknownst to the guests, their complaints echoed down the cliffs to the source of their frustrations—the third god— who was comfortably sunning herself on a boulder nearby. With a chuckle, Izzy smoothed another rock in her palm. Her decent aim had denied the guests two bucks, a mountain lion, and an antelope already, and it was still early. She packed a lunch, there was no way the hunters would outlast her. Truthfully, it wasn't that she didn't like Marcus and Deiondre, on the contrary, the two were rather decent guys compared to many she had run into at Westworld. They were visiting the park for Deiondre's bachelor party, and were happy to just soak up all that the park had to offer. It took little more than a charming smile and an off-handed comment about her single status to rope them into her scheme to break Hector out of prison.

During which time, she may have overstated her knowledge of the narrative in her pursuit of suitably-manageable humans. In a moment of irony not lost on her, Izzy wished Len was there to help her find the beginning of the storyline; all she had to go off of was the fact that she had to find "Ojal Prison", as the hosts called it, and hope they ran into one of the Join a Gang narrative markers at some point.

That didn't mean that she wanted Marcus and Deiondre to get everything they wanted, however. And Izzy felt a small prick of satisfaction as the buck, followed by his doe, disappeared into the forest. Maybe it was because, deep down, all the hosts—human and animal—were an extension of Hector, and she couldn't bear to sit by and permit their blood sacrifices on the altar of entertainment. So, to any who chose to enjoy the sunshine in the valley that morning, she was Artemis, goddess of the hunt, and she would grant mercy to all under her watchful eye.

Speaking of Hector, Izzy hadn't the foggiest idea of how to bridge the gap between them. When she had broken him out of jail, he had been curious and had no time to quarrel, but it was apparent he didn't recognize her. Not only did he not recognize her, but he was wary of her. At that point, Len's words came floating into her mind about how emotionally unavailable Hector usually was; he was a nightmare to get truly close to.

Without asking any further questions, Hector had picked her out as the leader of the group as soon as they made their way back to camp, referring all questions and decision-making to her. But even now, a few days into her "Join a Gang" narrative, he had hardly spoken outside of what must have been necessary to keep them on the storyline, opting instead to leave much of the planning and cavorting to Armistice and Tenderloin. Izzy's original plan, to just ingratiate herself and bide her time until the night before the saloon heist, would not suffice.

The first night they sat around the campfire, Hector had already gone against programming to administer her epi-pen; it was possible that the flirting and none-too-subtle come-on were side effects of the same error. If so, she had to be prepared for the possibility that when he was reset this time, his fondness for her vanished with the aberrant coding. Izzy realized she was going to have to give him a shove in the right direction.

The QA team never returned the key necklace to her, which meant that Hector may still have had it stashed in the small compartment on his belt. It helped him recall his memories once before, Izzy thought it may do the same for him now. He told her that he never used that compartment, consequently, it was possible that the necklace was still there, in the place that only her Hector knew to look.

All she had to do was get the belt off of a leery desperado who was built to be secretive and crafty and didn't seem to like her very much. Piece of cake.


"You want us to lobotomize them is what you're saying."

"No, not you, Mr. Lowe. Afterall, this was your responsibility...assuming you have nothing to share with us in terms of your culpability."

"No."

"Then you're fired."

Bernard still couldn't believe it. He had never been fired from anything, ever. He could clearly recall Ford's face as he trained his gaze to the ground, assuring him that he would not take responsibility for the reveries and the ensuing chaos. Bernard was the fall guy, and out of the many things he knew he was, this one he never expected.

Something was going on in the park, with the hosts and storylines, something that went far beyond ego-stroking and money-making.

"Someone has been using the old bicameral system for weeks to retask hosts...these modifications, they are serious. Changing loops, breaking loops...some of these changes are to their prime directives. They could lie to us, maybe even hurt us or the guests..."

Bernard wished Elsie would return his calls; it wasn't like her to go radio silent, especially after what she had discovered out in the old theater. Someone, under the guise of Arnold, was making sweeping code modifications right under Delos' noses. That paired with Robert having unmonitored pet projects in unused sectors of the park? Bernard knew he had to put his wounded pride to the wayside and talk to Theresa—guest safety was of utmost concern to her, and she needed to hear what he had to say.

He wasn't surprised to find that she wasn't keen on a sit down meeting with him, instead opting to walk the halls of the QA level and forcing him to keep up. A part of him, inappropriately, found himself missing his Theresa in that moment, the one that used to live under these many layers of formality and bureaucracy and would sometimes sparkle playfully behind her eyes as the rest of her face remained staunchly neutral.

"I appreciate your professionalism, but you really don't need to bother with this...given the change to your employment status."

Bernard was not deterred by her curtness, and caught up to her with long strides. "The test was a sham. The little show you and Hale put on? Completely transparent from a technical perspective. Clumsy to the point of making me embarrassed for you."

"Embarrassed?" Theresa echoed with skepticism. She crossed her arms over her white blouse, and Bernard recognized that stance. She was more worried than she wanted to let on.

"If I saw through it, I can only imagine what Ford was thinking. There were glaringly obvious markers of human intervention in the code." He walked in front of her and stopped them both. "If your programmers were any good, they would be working for me. And I know you and your team were responsible for the stray and its satellite transmission."

At that, her eyes betrayed her concern more than her body language ever could. Her voice was soft and affectionate as she began to plead her case, "Bernie..."

But Bernard wasn't here to point fingers or get anyone else fired, and so he begged her patience. "I don't care. Forty years ago, Ford's partner wrote half the code that this place was founded on. What you said in the lab was right, we don't know how the hosts work, and I think there's something wrong with them. Ford's explanation only bolsters my hunch. The ability to deviate from program behavior arises out of the host's recall of past iterations."

"You're thinking there's a connection between memory and—"

"And improvisation, yes. Out of repetition comes variation, and after countless cycles of repetition, these hosts were varying...they were on the verge of some kind of change."

A beat passed between them as his words sunk in and she slowly gathered what that meant for them, the hosts, the park, and the company.

"You have to know, my chief concern has always been the well-being of this park and the people in it," Theresa commented lamely, seeming to be at a loss for words of any real gravity at the moment. She put a reassuring hand on his arm in hopes of demonstrating her sincerity, and Bernard knew she meant it, that was why he was trusting her with this information. Evenso, he found himself staring down at the act of affection and had the oddest sensation of being a bystander in his own body. He gave her the briefest of smiles.

"I know, Theresa, which is why I need to show you something." He didn't know what it meant, or if this was technically a betrayal of Ford's trust, but he would no longer allow all of these discordant events to go without intervention, and he certainly wasn't going to allow them to be swept under the rug with his termination. If it meant that Dr. Ford needed to be given less power to ensure guest safety, or all the Behavior programmers needed to be fired and replaced with more scrupulous ones, then so be it.

Theresa nodded, no longer attempting to remove herself from the situation. Together they got on the elevator and headed out to Sector 17.


Oh how the mighty fall, Izzy acknowledged with only a whisper of regret, as she hid on shore among the boulders and spied on monitored Hector in the lake. And he looked as handsome as ever swimming in that lake. So, now she decided to simply embrace her new techno-perv status and put it to good use. This may be her only chance to get to his holster and belt without trying to physically restrain him and take it off. Based on their recent interactions, Izzy's gut said he wouldn't be nearly as into that as he was a few days prior.

"Retire? That sounds rather indecent to me, Señor Escaton. Are you trying to have me branded a hussy?"

Hector laughed and stood up, still holding her in his arms. "I would never intentionally besmirch your sterling reputation, Miss Moore. Unless you'd like me to."

The memory brought with it a pang in her heart, and Izzy tried not to hold it against this Hector that he was wary and aloof, sinister and cunning, and worlds away from her own Hector. She was reminded of what her mother told her when they were out hunting Moseby: hosts couldn't help but stick to their loops and the personality they were given. Unfortunately, as he went through his script, talking about the Olvido, and highway robbery, and the world being madness, and: "What turns of fate have brought you here?" she realized it was impossible to keep her heartache from simmering into resentment toward this doppelganger. Every time he'd look at her, right past her, with a stranger's eyes, mounting frustration would force her to rein in her emotions. Izzy want to hit him, punch him, brand him an imposter and berate him until he relinquished the Hector buried under lines of coding and QA patches.

But she did none of those things, instead opting to wait and admire watch for an opportune moment to sneak over to where his newly-washed clothes hung from a line. Much of the walk could be done away from Hector's line of sight, and with Marcus and Deiondre distracting Armistice and Tenderloin, Izzy was relatively confident that she could manage this coup. That was, of course, until she felt an exhale of hot breath on her neck.


Oh Hector absolutely knew that the woman was going through his things. She was enigmatic, he would give her and her pretty face that, but clearly had absolutely no idea who she was dealing with. He knew these woods and cliffs like the back of his hand; he had gunned down the sheriff, and, Hector hated to brag, was the most wanted man in Sweetwater. At present, however, he was just thankful that he never kept anything of worth in his belt holster; she could look all she wanted to—he didn't have much to steal. Besides, Santo was tied over by his clothes, and he could be as ornery and idiosyncratic as his rider.

For a good twenty minutes, Hector seriously considered living in this lake. He had never been happier to go swimming than the day they got back to camp, and he swam every day since. It seemed the Ojal Prison grime would never go away; and here, with the birds chirping, the quiet flapping of his newly cleaned clothes drying in the wind, and the lapping of the waves, he felt more at peace than he had in months. Even with the undefinably peculiar blonde actively robbing him on shore.

Isabella Moore was said peculiar blonde's name. And her glaring dissimilarity to his querida Isabella wasn't lost on Hector either. Fate was a cruel mistress. Tall and lithe, Moore had an aggressive, commanding presence that she didn't seem concerned about softening for the menfolk. She moved about camp with a practiced ease as though she had been there before. More maddening to Hector was how no one else around could see it, that this woman was alien in her perfect composure. Most maddening of all, however, was that sometimes he caught her looking at him. Her haunting light blue eyes would sparkle impishly, and her lip would curl just enough to give him the disconcerting feeling that he wasn't in on some unfathomable secret of hers. Ay dios, ella lo enfureció.

With a deep breath, he closed his eyes, sinking under the water and waiting for the inevitable screaming. Santo took his guard dog status seriously, and ever since he had been taken to prison, the gelding had tried not to let Hector out of his sight. Hector was confident Miss Moore wouldn't be able to get very far.

That was, of course, until he heard her laughter ring out from the trees. Some sneaky thief she was.

"Santo! Oh, you scared the shit out of me! it's so good to see you! How have you been, handsome boy?...Oh thank you. Yes, yes. I was afraid you wouldn't remember me! I'll try to find you a treat back at camp."

His lungs screamed for air as he pushed down deeper into the depths, but Hector didn't care. At least that made sense. He had always known the world, in general, was madness, but this was a personal level of insanity he had never encountered before.

Hijo de puta. He was going to have to figure out exactly who this woman really was. And what she was hiding.


A/N: I really just want to thank everyone for their continued kudos, comments, and general love for this story. You guys are amazing and made me decide to kick my own ass into gear, rewatch season 1, rewatch and take notes on season 2, and just really get down into the details about how this story is going to end. I am hoping to update regularly. I did go back and edit chapters 1 through 21, just mainly for little typos (and all my emdashes kept turning into hyphens so I fixed that) so everything should read much nicer now.

TLDR, I know, but if any of you have music playlists/song recs, I'm thinking of creating a sort of "official soundtrack" for Homicidal By Design and I'd love to hear your suggestions.