Well, I'm gratified at the response the first chapter of Whom the Gods Would Destroy... got, even if it was limited. Hope you like the next chapter.

Before we go on, though, I'd like to announce that I have begun revising Hadrian Kotomine, my crossover with Fate/Stay Night. The revised initial chapters will be posted soon.

WHOM THE GODS WOULD DESTROY...

CHAPTER 2:

THE GYNOID AND THE IMMORTAL

"Okay, so, to sum up," Maeve began, speaking sceptically, "you're a wizard. And despite appearances, you're seventy-odd years old(1). You came here after mourning the death of your wife and kids thanks to criminals. Here being some big island in the 21st Century instead of the 19th, where people can come to entertain themselves by killing or raping living dolls called robots or Hosts, including myself, just to live out some fantasy. Or, if they want to, play the hero, like you did. Whenever I die or need repairs or to be checked, these people in charge of this place take me out and repair me, or fiddle with my head. But your rings, because they are supposedly magical, has allowed me to remember what they did to me."

"Yeah. You're…taking this well."

"Oh, I'm absolutely livid," Maeve said quietly. "It means my life is a lie, and I exist to be killed or bedded, with or without my consent. Assuming you're telling the truth. How do I know you are?"

"You don't. I brought you into my trunk because, well, I didn't feel safe leaving you inside your homestead. I mean, did we…?"

"No. We kissed, but that was about it. You were too drunk to do anything else." She looked him up and down, and smiled slightly. "You're easy on the eyes, though. You held me, when I remembered. I was crying and sobbing and screaming. I shoved you into a wall at one stage, thinking you were…like them. And yet…you still held me."

"…You're not the only one who spent years in a bad situation, being manipulated and abused by a higher power, playing along to someone else's story," Harry said quietly. "I just didn't have the luxury of forgetting it. If you can call that a luxury, anyway."

Harry watched as the dark-skinned gynoid contemplated this. If Ron was still alive, he'd probably have called her a MILF. Eventually, she asked, "Am I real?"

"Define real," Harry said. "You're…how old, now? I mean, in terms of operation?"

"Twenty years now," Maeve remarked.

"Just…think of it this way. You can think and you can doubt. So, as far as I'm concerned, you're real, even if your memories of your life on the ranch weren't. Unfortunately, you probably haven't seen much of the good side of humans, only the bad parts."

"No, no…there's been others like you, others who have helped me out," she said quietly. "But they leave. They always left. Only a few came back, and I never remembered them. I think I've seen that man, the one who attacked us, before."

"He's one of the owners. He's a nasty piece of work," Harry muttered, remembering his trek through William Regis' mind.

Maeve nodded. "He's not the only one. There was this nice man, Bernard Lowe, I think he was…he spoke to me when I was in that room. He was one of the few men who didn't look at me with lust in his eyes. I didn't like the look of that man Ford. Not because he wanted my body, but…it was almost as if he wanted my soul, not to claim it, but…to change it. Twist it."

"Ford? Oh, wait, the guy who looks like Hannibal Lecter. I thought it was odd when I looked through that bastard's memories. I was thinking, why the hell is he talking to Anthony Hopkins?" On Maeve's blink of confusion, he said, "Okay, need to get you up to snuff with pop culture. I forget, you're technically from a fictionalised version of the 1800s. Thankfully, I smuggled in a special TV with streaming video, not to mention a lot of video discs. Oh, and a computer tablet. So, we'll do a TV binge later. But, first things first. Now, Maeve, what do you feel towards the people of Delos Industries?"

"Need you ask?" Maeve scowled.

"No, but…I'm guessing it involves killing them. Now, don't get me wrong, I can't blame you. But death is so final, it means their torment has ended. Whereas pranks and humiliation…they're more fun, because you need to be creative. For example…" He fumbled around for his tablet computer, and opened it up, pulling up YouTube, and then the video he took of William Regis. "Whoa! Now that's an audience! Look at the viewcount! Not so sure about the comments section, but hey, most of it's towards Wild Bill Smallcock's performance. Not my fault he's tone deaf."

Maeve stared at the sight of her tormentor, dressed in what looked like very risqué feminine undergarments and makeup, singing something about being a 'sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania'. Very badly, too. She couldn't help but chuckle at the sheer ludicrousness of the video. "So…is this like a phonograph, only with pictures?"

"In the same way you're like a doll, yes," Harry said. "Actually, from what I understand, you shouldn't be able to see modern technology or any images. Maybe what the Potter family ring did to you bypassed that."

Maeve nodded, before her eyes widened. "Linda!" she yelped. "Where is she?"

"In the guest room. I'll take you there…"

Doctor Robert Ford had often heard remarks to the fact that he resembled Anthony Hopkins, at least once he reached adulthood. He found it a source of both annoyance and amusement, though admittedly, one of the few highlights of his life that wasn't related to robotics and AI was when he met the man himself, shortly before Hopkins died. Arnold sometimes teased him about it, trying to get him to do that damned slurping hiss Hannibal Lecter did, or that line about eating someone's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti. Or imitating Odin from those damned Marvel films.

Still, Ford did enjoy occasionally unnerving people by channelling his inner Hannibal. Not the flesh-eating parts, but the cold, calm, cultured grace, the keen intellect. It was how he could remain calm (or at least pretend to be) while Theresa, Bernard, Sizemore (more like Sizeless) and Stubbs were in something of a mild panic about what had happened to William. Ah, dear William, the man who descended too far into the fantasy and never quite returned. On the rare occasions they met, Ford liked to troll William.

Certainly, the man's humiliation was amusing. He was not raging, but he was facepalming as the others watched the video of him singing Sweet Transvestite. "Can't we trace who created the account?" Theresa asked as they stood in Theresa's office, overlooking the control room.

"The IT detachment of Security is doing so. Whoever did it is good at covering their tracks," Stubbs said with a scowl as he looked at messages on his computer tablet. "The channel is Marauder Mayhem. Apparently their debut happened when they somehow got Donald Trump to sing I'm a Little Teapot in one of the rooms in the White House shortly after his inauguration as President. Trump claimed the footage was faked, and most people thought so. Or else, Trump got drunk and someone filmed it. Nobody caught the culprit, or at least so the stories say. You hear rumours, though, that someone managed to put pressure on Trump and his government to drop the matter."

Ford frowned. "What about the guest who was supposed to be in the vicinity of the homestead?"

"We can't locate him. His name is Sirius Black," Theresa said. "An obvious alias, but some guests do so. Actually, the only record we found of a Sirius Black, aside from some possibly faked ID, was of a man who died in 1996, a fugitive."

To Ford's surprise, it was Sizeless who spoke, puzzled. "Excuse me, but did you say…Sirius Black? First name spelled like the star?"

"Yes," Theresa said. "How did you know?"

"Just a moment. Can I see his picture?"

Theresa handed over the computer tablet she had been using. After a moment, Sizeless doubled over, laughing. Ford noted that his laughter, while mostly mocking, also had a bleakness, a sort of resignation that meant he knew something. "What's so funny?" Bernard asked.

"What's so funny? We're fucked, and not in a good way!" Sizeless laughed, before pointing at William. "What happened to him was just a warning shot, if we're lucky."

"And if we're not lucky?" Stubbs asked. "How do you know this guy?"

"It falls under the Official Secrets Acts, unfortunately, and you wouldn't believe me if I told you anyway," Sizeless retorted. "If we're lucky, he's decided to take those two Hosts out of Westworld, and that'll be the end of it. And if we're unlucky…well, let's just say that he took down a terrorist when he was still in his teens. I wish I was making this shit up," he added, holding up his hands in a placating manner, on seeing the sceptical glances he got.

"If you know so much about this Sirius Black guy," William said, "then maybe you can help us figure out how to track him down."

"You don't get it. You know those revenge rampage films like Taken or John Wick? This guy is very like that, only, you'll wish you were dead. He's a force of fucking nature, and anyone who has tried to kill him ended up regretting it," Sizemore said. "Blackmail or extortion won't work, it'll only piss him off more. You can't buy him off, either, he's got a lot of money. Probably enough to buy you out, old man."

William scoffed. "Hilarious, coming from the hack writer who believes in cramming in as much sex and violence as he can into the park. God, this place has gone to the dogs since you were brought on. And now, you're running scared because of this Sirius Black guy?"

"With good reason. And his name isn't Sirius Black, you wanker, it's Harry Potter." Sizemore ran a hand through his hair. "And frankly, I now need a drink. A lot of them. If you want my advice, leave him the fuck alone, and if he wants to take those two Hosts out of the park, let him. Okay, have him pay for them if you need to save face, he can afford it, but if you decide to go after him, guns blazing, then I wash my hands of the lot of you. Because if Harry Potter has an unofficial motto, it's Nemo me impune lacessit."

Nobody attacks me with impunity, Ford mentally translated. Motto of the Stuart Dynasty. And while he could tell that the others didn't believe Sizemore, save perhaps for Bernard, Ford could tell that Sizemore was not exaggerating.

So, making a decision, he stood, and said, "Mr Sizemore, I believe I may keep you company for those drinks. In fact, I have a number of good bottles of whiskey you might wish to try…"

To Harry, seeing Maeve and Linda hug each other was a sight to behold. True, their love for each other was technically programmed, but he had once, long before he had even heard about Delos and their park, discussed the nature of programmed responses in living minds as opposed to computer ones with Hermione and Luna. It seemed genuine, and if Maeve truly was conscious now, then all the better. It only strengthened his resolve to get these two, at the very least, out of Westworld. Truth be told, he felt like taking the whole park down, along with Delos. His saving people thing had flared up again.

Still, given Linda's response to Maeve's questions, Linda herself wasn't actually conscious yet. She didn't see the modern technology around her, for one, whereas Maeve could. And it was a bit disheartening.

After they had breakfast, Harry sent Linda into his library, while he and Maeve discussed things. "Is there anything you can do to help her?" Maeve asked.

"Maybe. The perception filter that prevents her from seeing anything anachronistic might be disabled if I can find a way," Harry mused. "But would you want her to remember everything that she went through in those loops?"

Maeve shuddered. She had been barely able to cope with the knowledge herself. "No. But…can you do it with your computer tablet? That's what you called that thing, wasn't it?"

Harry shook his head. "You need Delos' actual software to do that. And while I'm okay at covering my tracks online, that was partly due to Hermione and Luna helping me out. I'd need one of the staff's own tablets, one with the software on it, to sync with your daughter and you. You see, most of you is an organic body, albeit engineered so that, if limiters were taken away, you'd have more strength and cognitive ability than a normal human. But I got from Wild Bill Smallcock that you apparently have a highly effective and well-armoured CPU, of sorts, deep within what you'd call a brain. In truth, your brain matter is mostly for show, it's the CPU that does the work."

"CPU?"

"Central processing unit. Basically the brain of any computer or robot," Harry explained. "I'm guessing it also contains your hard drive, basically your memories. Apparently, besides altering your memories, they can alter personality traits and mental qualities. Intelligence, aggression, libido, loyalty…you get the idea. Scary thought. It's like the Imperius, but potentially more subtle and insidious. Actually, let's try something. I got these from Billy Bunter(2)'s memories. There's codephrases that basically act as override commands. He never used them himself while indulging in his sick games, because that'd spoil the fun. Maeve…do you trust me?"

Maeve, after a moment, said, "I'm not sure whether to trust you completely, not yet. But…you've been explaining a lot about my world. You helped save me from that man, despite knowing we were just…robots. So…I will trust you not to take advantage of me."

"Right. The first one I want to try is a shutdown command. It basically puts you to sleep. When you wake up, you view everything that happens next as a dream, until the techs bring you out of it. I'm testing to see if they still work, so we can know what to avoid. Second is what they call 'Analysis Mode'. It allows you to look at your own reactions semi-objectively, analysing them. There's a few other commands to try, but if they work, then we'll need to find ways to stop them from working."

Maeve nodded. "I understand."

"Right. Here goes nothing. Fall into a deep and dreamless slumber."

Almost instantly, Maeve, who was sitting down, slumped in her chair, her eyes closing. Instantly, Harry said, "Maeve, wake up."

She did so. "That…" she remarked, "was disturbing. Oh God, I remember those times when those technicians did that to me."

"Okay…Analysis Mode, Maeve."

At this, she straightened, staring straight at Harry. He then said, "How do you feel about me?"

"Many conflicting feelings. Wariness. Gratitude. Curiosity. Fear. Anger. Hope."

"And about these backdoors?"

"Disgust and hatred. They allow me to be exploited."

"Okay, Maeve, that's enough. Back to normal." Thankfully, Harry, who didn't know exactly how to bring her out of Analysis Mode, managed to bring her out of it with those words, and she shuddered.

"Can we stop doing these, please?" she asked.

"Okay. Sorry, I just needed to try that. So, there's one thing that we should do next to find out how to remove those from you, assuming I can't remove them by other means. I think you should meet your maker…well, one of them, anyway…"

CHAPTER 2 ANNOTATIONS:

So, Harry has explained things to Maeve, and Sizemore knows about Harry.

1. At least one source claims that Westworld is set some time in the 2050s (I think it's the promotional website or something), so I'm going with that.

2. Billy Bunter was a rotund, rather obnoxious schoolboy character created by Charles Hamilton, under the pseudonym of Frank Richards.