Author's Note

The bulk of this piece was a reimagined Westworld fanfiction one-shot that I wrote in January, 2019. I gave it a few minor alterations and a facelift so that I could use it for a mini writing prompt challenge on Writco.

I hope you enjoy it.

~ Mar

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The streetlights were dim as the mist enclosed the whole of Sector Seven in its mysterious grip. She peered out her window into the shrouded darkness. Was there someone out there? Or was it her imagination?

The flickering neon light from a sign advertising cheap, imported computer parts revealed a tall silhouette on the fire escape, far below. The heavy mist made the figure appear hazy, but there was no mistaking his presence. It wasn't her imagination or a trick of the light. He was there.

And he was climbing.

Leaving her window wide open, Maeve stepped back, settling in a chair a few feet away. He would come in regardless; it was preferable if his entrance did not cause broken glass.

A streaming cloud of smoke blew from Maeve's pursed lips, her electronic cigarette held between two elegant fingers. She didn't need the fix — there were no bodily needs or addictions for Synthetics — but the action soothed her, and she knew there could be no damage to her manufactured lungs.

A moment later, the silhouette appeared in her open window, as she had known it would. Stepping over the ledge, a man entered her flat, pulling a long silver handgun from the back of his pants.

He pointed it at her.

"Stay silent and you won't get hurt," he instructed, his voice an urgent whisper.

The sudden appearance of the man and his bizarre demand did nothing to ruffle her metaphorical feathers. She'd existed in this sector for far too long to shock easily.

Maeve waved her hand in flippant dismissal. "You couldn't hurt me, pet. Not permanently, at any rate. Shoot me if you like — a simple reboot and I'll be back at it. I doubt the same could be said of you. So, use your gun, or fuck off out of here."

The man looked taken aback. She saw his dark eyes widen in the soft light of her flat, and his handsome yet hardened features lost a touch of their severity. Bemused, he used his free hand to rub his chiseled jaw.

He lowered the gun.

"Got any booze? I need a drink," he said.

"Three things I value, pet," she told him, exhaling smoke in his direction. "My holy trinity: booze, privacy, and silence. And I often have an abundance of all three."

Maeve observed the man, scrutinizing his movements, ticks, and behavior with all the interest of watching a fly on the wall. Her system had already gathered, analyzed, and logged his heart rate, blood pressure, core temperature, and breathing, but none of that information was necessary to deduce that he was on the run.

He was anxious, but not as anxious as most Organics would be in his current circumstances.

"Avoiding arrest?" Maeve asked with a disinterested tip of her head toward the window through which he'd come. She turned off her e-cigarette and got up from her chair. "You're lucky you're attractive. Yes, I have booze. You have an apology?"

She went to the compact bar that separated the kitchen from the sitting area. This was supposed to be her night off. No drama. No disruptions. Certainly no visitors.

She changed her situational inner setting from "relax" to "adapt."

Pouring two fingers of Jack Daniels into a glass, she crossed the room with a languid gait and handed the drink to her visitor.

He took the glass, his expression grateful but cautious. He swallowed the dark liquor in one gluttonous gulp.

"An apology for coming through your window at two o'clock in the morning?" he clarified, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"No," Maeve said. Taking a step closer to him, she snatched the glass from his hand. Chin raised in proud defiance, she met his eyes with her own. "An apology for staying away so long."

His dark eyes took on a sheen of regret. He pressed his lips together, unsure what to say.

"It's been months," Maeve said, accusation coloring her tone. "No encrypted digi-notes, no Vid-Grams, not even a bloody untraceable E-card. I thought you were dead."

He looked away, shame casting a shadow over his handsome, haunted features. "Things became...complicated," he said. "I made some bad decisions. Angered the wrong people. I didn't want to lead them back to you."

"You're making a bit of a habit of that, aren't you?"

"Yes. It would seem so, yes."

Her expression softened. She reached up, caressing the long scar below his eye with the pad of her thumb. "I missed you."

"I missed you more." He took her hand in both of his, gently pressing her palm to his chest. "I am sorry, Maeve. Please forgive me."

She smiled. Having him so near after an absence so long filled her with a wistful, nostalgic longing.

"The dramatic entrance partially redeemed your negligence," she told him. She could feel the blood pumping through his strong, organic heart. "You know I can't resist a good intrigue."

"Was the gun too much?" he asked with a smirk.

"A bit over the top," she admitted. "But I enjoyed it."

She turned, pulling her hand away from him. She walked to the kitchen and set the empty glass on the counter.

"How long can you stay?" she asked, her back to him.

There was a long, pregnant pause. She could hear his breathing and his heartbeat. He was working hard to keep them steady.

"I don't know," he confessed. "Maybe only until dawn."

Maeve sniffed, hands on her narrow hips.

She changed her situational inner setting from "adapt" to "action."

She turned around.

"Well," she said. "If tonight is all we have, let's not waste it."

Crossing the room, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a heated kiss.

His strong arms encircled her waist, and he bent his head, returning the kiss with desirous hunger. Their mouths moved together, lips tangled in remembered passion.

Every kiss might be the last. So it had always been for the pair of them. Their's was a stolen moment. In this world of hyperspeed, instant gratification, and psuedo pleasures, they scavenged for something lasting and real.

But everything beautiful was fleeting.

Nothing good could stay.

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