Congratulations, Delos Resorts and Parks have chosen you as a recipient of a two week stay at any of our varied theme parks. During your time you will have a chance to indulge every impulse, desire, and wish in a vast and realistic world where anything can happen! Would you like to visit the Old West or experience Medieval times? Avoid the Prohibition or live the Age of Sail? These destinations and more await you!
The premise of this meme is based on both the current television series and movie Westworld. People are divided among hosts and guests. The hosts are artificial beings programmed to believe they are living in authentic worlds of all different varieties. They are unaware that they are artificial and have their own goals and personalities. Guests are just people! Living out in the real world, they've been given a once in a lifetime opportunity to visit one of the most expensive thrills available.
You can play as a guest or a host, so just indicate which your character will be in your subject line. Guests will be given opportunity to dress the part while looking for some kind of storyline to get drawn into. Hosts will be going about their ordinary lives, convinced everything is normal... until they don't.
Pick any setting you like! I mean, it's a meme, I can't tell you what to do. Use Bikini Bottom as your setting if you want. I don't care.
Smut, uh... finds a way. Make sure you indicate if that's something you want.
Configuations
Two Guests - Maybe you're old friends or new acquaintances, but now you can do whatever you want with no rules or consequences. You'll be seeing each other in a whole new light.
Two Hosts - This is your world and this is how it's always been as far as you know. Things are going well until some invincible host blows through town. Now one of you is starting to question the nature of your reality.
Host and Guest - One of you is real, the other only exists as a form of entertainment. Is it just a game or do things get a little too real?
(check out info from the film and TV series for more ideas)
Some people walk through the saloon's doors to drown their sorrows. Some are here for her girls.
Some are just looking for trouble, whether it's in a card game or in a bottle or in the safe upstairs. Everyone has their vices and sooner or later -- usually sooner -- Maeve figures out what they are. It's part of the job and she's always been damn good at her job.
The man with the dark hat and the generous beard looks like half a dozen men she's seen here already today. Beside her, Clementine turns toward her with a raised eyebrow that says should I or will you? and she takes her time about responding, drinking her sherry.
Because the truth is Maeve Millay has not been at her best today. Every time she looks at Clementine there's a memory she can't place. A table shoved onto its side, gunfire, glasses shattering. Clementine's sweet face lifeless and dripping blood. Clutching at her own stomach and looking down in surprise as her hands come away stained scarlet.
There's no wound there. She's checked, run her fingertips over smooth skin. But she remembers it, remembers the front of her dress wet with blood, feels a vague discomfort even now. Something not so unlike phantom pain, this faint ache in a wound she just can't see.
And that's not the only memory she can't place.
But Clementine's looking at her expectantly, and she takes a second to glance over at the newcomer again. Whether it's a kneejerk protective instinct or the desire to take her mind off things, she drains her glass and rises from her seat. "I'll size this one up, darling."
She doesn't own the place -- it's the bartender's name on the deed -- but most days she could make someone believe she does. She winds her way between tables to him, earrings glinting, and offers a small smile. "You're a dusty traveler, aren't you? What brings you here today?"
Arthur has been on the road for a long while; Dutch keeps talking about one more big score, about needing to go just a little further, to do a little more work and then they can get out of this life. They can go somewhere far away. Tahiti or something. The tropics. Arthur quietly doubts that they'll get that far. He's been doubting a lot of things lately and it isn't a comfortable feeling. He's used to just being able to do what neds to be done without letting anything really getting in the way.
These days he's not so sure. There's a gnawing hollow feeling of doubt and it's gotten to the point where he's had to voice it. To push back. He can't leave though - he'd never leave. Not now. He still has loyalty and that still means something, because if it doesn't, what has all of this been for? What has all of the killing, all of the dying, really been forlike that he doesn't know. It's like wearing clothes that are too tight, emotions straining against the bounds he's put on them.
It's not that there's moral doubt, although that factors into it. Arthur Morgan knows that he is not a good man - has never been a good man, although maybe he could have been once upon a time. He's trying, though. Lord, is he trying. Bit by bit, piece by piece, as if somehow he can make up for a lifetime of killing and robbing. Is he really trying to make up for it though? He doesn't know.
He doesn't know about a lot of things anymore.
When he rides into town, down from the camp they've made up in the hills, he's looking for a potential job. A take that they can use to survive a little while longer, even if there are bounty hunters and Pinkertons out there. The saloon is his kind of place, honestly - a bit run-down, rough and tumble, with a rough-around-the-edges kind of clientele. He slides off of his horse and goes striding through the swing-doors, dust drifting through the air behind him and -
He stops.
Becuase for a moment, he could swear that he's been here before. He knows he hasn't, of course, but there's the strangest feeling that he's stood here, that he's seen those people playing poker, that-
But no. That's impossible.
"Gettin' old, Arthur Morgan," he mutters to himself and he stumps off toward a table in the corner after he's gotten a beer to wet his throat. He settles down, legs spread under the table, gaze focused and sharp, and he sees the woman before she speaks to him.
She's smiling. He's not sure that's a good thing. Arthur is naturally suspicious of people, although that's been tempered as of late. He gives her a look and then he shrugs, lifting his beer bottle an inch or two to punctuate his words.
Well, he's all charm, isn't he? She doesn't really buy that he's just here for a drink. Maybe a drink and something else, but she'll find out what.
"Maeve." She's dressed better than most people here, but it's a distinctive kind of better: her neckline's lower, she smells more like soap and sherry than trail dust and campfire smoke, her hair is relatively neat in an updo accented with a few small feathers. It's a show. A mating call, with a price attached. "Maeve Millay, and other than Wilson there--" A nod of her head toward the man behind the bar, busily pouring. "--I'm the person most likely to make sure you get what you want while you're here."
Now that she's walked over she gives him a closer look, an inspection that doesn't feel too much like an inspection. Potential customers don't usually want to be judged. But his eyes are sharp; it's a point in his favor.
"A better drink than that? The company of a woman?" If he prefers the company of men it's fine; she simply doesn't have one to offer. "Information?"
She's met all kinds. Surprises (glasses shattering, Clementine's strangled cry, waking up on a cold table with people talking over her) are rare.
"Well, Miss Millay-" He replies, every word in that western twang as he takes her in. He doesn't think she's just a whore; she doesn't feel like that. No, she reminds him a little more of the girls back at camp. Willing to do what needs to be done and hungry for information or another score. Which means he's right to be a bit suspicious, all things considered. Very few people help out of the goodness of their hearts.
Even if Arthur sometimes feels like he's trying as hard as he can for... some reason. To try and make sure his life hasn't been a complete and utter waste up to this point.
"You're offering quite a few things, so allow me to answer in order."
He takes a slow swig of his beer, still watching her with that dour, alert expression.
"If I wanted better, I would've ordered it; I don't much care or need that kind of companionship... and information? That depends entirely on the information you're trying to sell."
He's got her number. Or thinks he does.
"Now, as for my name? Arthur. Arthur Morgan."
There's a price on his head, but he doesn't think it's gotten this far. Not yet.
There's a flicker of surprise in her eyes before she gives him a look that says please do with evident amusement. She folds her hands over the back of the chair across from him.
"Well, Arthur Morgan," she answers once he's done. She doesn't share his dusty twang, her accent clinging stubbornly to a certain British precision despite a decade's erosion. "You'd be amazed at how loose tongues can get here."
There are two types of men who head for a corner table with a weak drink: some are keeping an eye out because they're wanted, and some are keeping an eye out because they're after someone else. Men and subtlety don't often go hand-in-hand, in her opinion.
She thinks back, trying to match his name with one of the sheriff's posters, maybe picture his face without the beard. He didn't rush in here with guns blazing so as far as she's concerned his money's as good as anyone's, but the more she figures out about him the better her offer can be. "Why don't you--"
A few feet away a chair screeches against the floor and she halts mid-sentence. She's not skittish by nature and wears it awkwardly now, eyes widening, but the poker game is abruptly getting out of hand and normally she'd barely even look in that direction but she hears herself say get down to Arthur and her eyes turn back toward the bar but Clementine's not still there.
"I don't think I would be all that surprised, Miss. Drinking tends to loosen tongues up, don't it?" Arthur sounds a touch amused. There's a hint of sardonic or dry wit to the man - an intelligence under the apparent brutishness he tends to radiate. He takes another sip of his beer, about to ask about her accent when a commotion breaks out over at the poker table. He glances over - not really his problem, right?
Still, there's the way she says get down and the rush of fear that comes off of her. He feels his hand twitch toward the revolver he's wearing on his hip as he sinks a little into his seat, body tensing. No one's aiming a gun or yelling at him, but he knows that this could go very wrong, very quickly. After all, his whole life has been violence of one kind or another.
"They going to shoot this place up?" He murmurs to her, eyes not leaving the shouting men over at the poker table.
[ Totally a Guest if we're talking WW proper, here for a weeklong stay. Or, he's the Ford to The Grid, a much more futuristic, cyberpunk park, I'm easy. ]
you drew the black hat card! discard at end of turn?
[There's a little of his mother's country in him yet, eldritch and far away, a sort of knack worse than useless to a penniless potato farmer.
He knows people in minutes of meeting them, and this dude--
Coat, collar, coloration and general carriage, plus the grooming--
If that isn't the city-slickingest young robber baron East of Dodge City, he'll eat his own grey bowler, hold the salt and thankee kindly.
...And. His mark is blowing right past him.]
Sir! [Bright, shaded with the right kind of concern, just exactly before he can lose him.] You dropped this!
[Of course he didn't. Of course it's been in Clark's shirtsleeve all morning, just, waiting.
But nobody ignores genuine Nevada silver glittering in the sun. Not when it's just being handed to them in respectable, entirely likely, easily exchanged pocket watch form.]
[listen I don't have my icons ready but I want to play this so bad]
[Human - not a guest, but a technician.
They're supposed to work in pairs down in 'Livestock Management', but go fucking figure, nightshift is short-staffed tonight. So, in lieu of someone spotting him, Remy's using a cart with wrist-straps to secure the host he's working on in the event of some glitch or malfunction, for his own safety.
It's incredibly fucking dull working solo, however. It's silent except for his own voice, and not even Remy is immune to how fucking annoying that is, and there's only so many times he can listen to himself hum the same few bars over and over. The silence makes him antsy, and it highlights just how creepy this horrible fucking job is. Christ, even the fucking name, 'Livestock Management'.
Yeah, HR puts a lot of fucking work into hammering it in to the technicians that hosts are just very well-crafted, realistic artificial intelligence in very well-crafted, realistic artificial bodies, but all that means is that he's working on a very well-crafted, realistic corpse. No matter how many times it's said in his employee handbook, no matter what the chemicals listed for the artificial body are called, it looks and acts exactly like a dead person. It gives him the fucking creeps.
Remy still does his fucking job though. He accepted this shit was going to be fucked up years ago, and now it's just an itch at the back of his head that gets worse when he's alone in silence.
So maybe it's subconscious sabotage on his part, or maybe just a moment of carelessness while reviewing the host status (or something far, far more concerning), but uh, this next host might not entirely be in sleep mode when he starts repairing it.]
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bakerstreet2018-12-24 01:53 pm
Arthur Morgan | Red Dead Redemption
no subject
Some are just looking for trouble, whether it's in a card game or in a bottle or in the safe upstairs. Everyone has their vices and sooner or later -- usually sooner -- Maeve figures out what they are. It's part of the job and she's always been damn good at her job.
The man with the dark hat and the generous beard looks like half a dozen men she's seen here already today. Beside her, Clementine turns toward her with a raised eyebrow that says should I or will you? and she takes her time about responding, drinking her sherry.
Because the truth is Maeve Millay has not been at her best today. Every time she looks at Clementine there's a memory she can't place. A table shoved onto its side, gunfire, glasses shattering. Clementine's sweet face lifeless and dripping blood. Clutching at her own stomach and looking down in surprise as her hands come away stained scarlet.
There's no wound there. She's checked, run her fingertips over smooth skin. But she remembers it, remembers the front of her dress wet with blood, feels a vague discomfort even now. Something not so unlike phantom pain, this faint ache in a wound she just can't see.
And that's not the only memory she can't place.
But Clementine's looking at her expectantly, and she takes a second to glance over at the newcomer again. Whether it's a kneejerk protective instinct or the desire to take her mind off things, she drains her glass and rises from her seat. "I'll size this one up, darling."
She doesn't own the place -- it's the bartender's name on the deed -- but most days she could make someone believe she does. She winds her way between tables to him, earrings glinting, and offers a small smile. "You're a dusty traveler, aren't you? What brings you here today?"
no subject
These days he's not so sure. There's a gnawing hollow feeling of doubt and it's gotten to the point where he's had to voice it. To push back. He can't leave though - he'd never leave. Not now. He still has loyalty and that still means something, because if it doesn't, what has all of this been for? What has all of the killing, all of the dying, really been forlike that he doesn't know. It's like wearing clothes that are too tight, emotions straining against the bounds he's put on them.
It's not that there's moral doubt, although that factors into it. Arthur Morgan knows that he is not a good man - has never been a good man, although maybe he could have been once upon a time. He's trying, though. Lord, is he trying. Bit by bit, piece by piece, as if somehow he can make up for a lifetime of killing and robbing. Is he really trying to make up for it though? He doesn't know.
He doesn't know about a lot of things anymore.
When he rides into town, down from the camp they've made up in the hills, he's looking for a potential job. A take that they can use to survive a little while longer, even if there are bounty hunters and Pinkertons out there. The saloon is his kind of place, honestly - a bit run-down, rough and tumble, with a rough-around-the-edges kind of clientele. He slides off of his horse and goes striding through the swing-doors, dust drifting through the air behind him and -
He stops.
Becuase for a moment, he could swear that he's been here before. He knows he hasn't, of course, but there's the strangest feeling that he's stood here, that he's seen those people playing poker, that-
But no. That's impossible.
"Gettin' old, Arthur Morgan," he mutters to himself and he stumps off toward a table in the corner after he's gotten a beer to wet his throat. He settles down, legs spread under the table, gaze focused and sharp, and he sees the woman before she speaks to him.
She's smiling. He's not sure that's a good thing. Arthur is naturally suspicious of people, although that's been tempered as of late. He gives her a look and then he shrugs, lifting his beer bottle an inch or two to punctuate his words.
"Just for a drink, I suppose. Who's asking?"
no subject
"Maeve." She's dressed better than most people here, but it's a distinctive kind of better: her neckline's lower, she smells more like soap and sherry than trail dust and campfire smoke, her hair is relatively neat in an updo accented with a few small feathers. It's a show. A mating call, with a price attached. "Maeve Millay, and other than Wilson there--" A nod of her head toward the man behind the bar, busily pouring. "--I'm the person most likely to make sure you get what you want while you're here."
Now that she's walked over she gives him a closer look, an inspection that doesn't feel too much like an inspection. Potential customers don't usually want to be judged. But his eyes are sharp; it's a point in his favor.
"A better drink than that? The company of a woman?" If he prefers the company of men it's fine; she simply doesn't have one to offer. "Information?"
She's met all kinds. Surprises (glasses shattering, Clementine's strangled cry, waking up on a cold table with people talking over her) are rare.
"What's your name?"
no subject
Even if Arthur sometimes feels like he's trying as hard as he can for... some reason. To try and make sure his life hasn't been a complete and utter waste up to this point.
"You're offering quite a few things, so allow me to answer in order."
He takes a slow swig of his beer, still watching her with that dour, alert expression.
"If I wanted better, I would've ordered it; I don't much care or need that kind of companionship... and information? That depends entirely on the information you're trying to sell."
He's got her number. Or thinks he does.
"Now, as for my name? Arthur. Arthur Morgan."
There's a price on his head, but he doesn't think it's gotten this far. Not yet.
no subject
"Well, Arthur Morgan," she answers once he's done. She doesn't share his dusty twang, her accent clinging stubbornly to a certain British precision despite a decade's erosion. "You'd be amazed at how loose tongues can get here."
There are two types of men who head for a corner table with a weak drink: some are keeping an eye out because they're wanted, and some are keeping an eye out because they're after someone else. Men and subtlety don't often go hand-in-hand, in her opinion.
She thinks back, trying to match his name with one of the sheriff's posters, maybe picture his face without the beard. He didn't rush in here with guns blazing so as far as she's concerned his money's as good as anyone's, but the more she figures out about him the better her offer can be. "Why don't you--"
A few feet away a chair screeches against the floor and she halts mid-sentence. She's not skittish by nature and wears it awkwardly now, eyes widening, but the poker game is abruptly getting out of hand and normally she'd barely even look in that direction but she hears herself say get down to Arthur and her eyes turn back toward the bar but Clementine's not still there.
Fuck.
no subject
Still, there's the way she says get down and the rush of fear that comes off of her. He feels his hand twitch toward the revolver he's wearing on his hip as he sinks a little into his seat, body tensing. No one's aiming a gun or yelling at him, but he knows that this could go very wrong, very quickly. After all, his whole life has been violence of one kind or another.
"They going to shoot this place up?" He murmurs to her, eyes not leaving the shouting men over at the poker table.
Clementine Pennyfeather : Westworld : OTA
Dolores Abernathy - Westworld
Logan Delos | Westworld
Kevin Flynn | Tron | OTA
you drew the black hat card! discard at end of turn?
He knows people in minutes of meeting them, and this dude--
Coat, collar, coloration and general carriage, plus the grooming--
If that isn't the city-slickingest young robber baron East of Dodge City, he'll eat his own grey bowler, hold the salt and thankee kindly.
...And. His mark is blowing right past him.]
Sir! [Bright, shaded with the right kind of concern, just exactly before he can lose him.] You dropped this!
[Of course he didn't. Of course it's been in Clark's shirtsleeve all morning, just, waiting.
But nobody ignores genuine Nevada silver glittering in the sun. Not when it's just being handed to them in respectable, entirely likely, easily exchanged pocket watch form.]
Remy | OC | OTA
[listen I don't have my icons ready but I want to play this so bad][Human - not a guest, but a technician.
They're supposed to work in pairs down in 'Livestock Management', but go fucking figure, nightshift is short-staffed tonight. So, in lieu of someone spotting him, Remy's using a cart with wrist-straps to secure the host he's working on in the event of some glitch or malfunction, for his own safety.
It's incredibly fucking dull working solo, however. It's silent except for his own voice, and not even Remy is immune to how fucking annoying that is, and there's only so many times he can listen to himself hum the same few bars over and over. The silence makes him antsy, and it highlights just how creepy this horrible fucking job is. Christ, even the fucking name, 'Livestock Management'.
Yeah, HR puts a lot of fucking work into hammering it in to the technicians that hosts are just very well-crafted, realistic artificial intelligence in very well-crafted, realistic artificial bodies, but all that means is that he's working on a very well-crafted, realistic corpse. No matter how many times it's said in his employee handbook, no matter what the chemicals listed for the artificial body are called, it looks and acts exactly like a dead person. It gives him the fucking creeps.
Remy still does his fucking job though. He accepted this shit was going to be fucked up years ago, and now it's just an itch at the back of his head that gets worse when he's alone in silence.
So maybe it's subconscious sabotage on his part, or maybe just a moment of carelessness while reviewing the host status (or something far, far more concerning), but uh, this next host might not entirely be in sleep mode when he starts repairing it.]