The wind's shrieking is unreal. Buildings bend like trees, the ground rumbles like a belly-laugh, and William's sense of reality turns inside out so many times that for an insane moment he stops and wonders: fuck, where did I park. He loses his coat—it flaps off like some newly liberated bird—and staggers through the first door he can wrench open.
He breathes out. The lights are dim—maybe they're failing. Water sloshes in from somewhere, soaks his boots before receding. He hurries into the hallway.
There's piano music playing in the distance, static-distorted but implacable. No matter how far he walks, no matter where he turns, it neither fades nor grows louder. It just persists, an endless loop. It's not until he starts to hum along that he finds the first radio—his hand brushing against it. As though it'd been there all along.
BUTTON UP YOUR OVERCOAT, it counsels upon being picked up. WHEN THE WIND IS FREE
“Thanks,” he mutters, teeth chattering. The room he's in—looks like a train platform, sans tracks, sans train, sans old gum and the smell of urine. He props himself against an inexplicable turnstile and frowns at the radio in his hand. “Billy,” it singsongs, and he drops it. He knows that voice, her voice, the early-morning roughness to it.
The radio spits out a few sparks—as though clearing its throat—and continues: “Billy boy, you never sleep this late.”
“Fuck me,” William says, at the same time his own voice issues from the radio, younger, to his ears. Blearily playful. “Stop, I hate...shit, what time is it?”
Her laugh spills out of the radio. William drops to the floor, twists the dial. Hits the off switch. "Negative," the radio snaps. "Negative," another chimes in. "Negative, the pattern is full."
Feel free to come across this mess now or later, when he's set one radio atop the turnstile, scrounged up two others, and—actively shivering—stares intently at them. He may not even turn at the sound of someone else approaching, or may greet them with a “shhh!”
ii. i have no preconceptions | bad luck
He lands on a trampoline.
It's broken.
William can't muster a sound, let alone an intelligible word. Something—his body—makes a popping noise and pain streaks down his shoulder. He opens his eyes—it hadn't mattered before, in the dark—to snow swirling around him. With a long, miserable groan he shifts to his side, and as though lying in wait, the trampoline jerks beneath him, collapsing with a rusty screech. He slides off into the street, gets unsteadily to his feet.
His boot's untied.
His shoulder's dislocated. He spent the past who-knows-how-long hurtling through blackness, first struggling, then yelling, the just wishing for it to end. He's said fuck so many times it doesn't seem worth saying again.
And William gingerly lowers himself to a seat on the edge of the trampoline, one of the shadows moves.
iii. whatever i see i swallow immediately | mirrors
a. 1st attempt
He remembers it—feels it, sometimes, like the ache of a past injury. “Unsettling” he'd call it—not necessarily a bad thing. His skin had crawled as he stared into the void behind the mirror; his nerves had felt, finally, like he had a use for them. He's thought, over and over, about what would have happened. The noise he'd heard, the coin he'd thrown. The mirror sealing up the moment he looked away.
This time, he crawls in.
...and emerges in a lounge. The furniture is ornate and coated with ash. Empty candy dishes sit on tables made to support little else.
He feels it again.
Come across William: pressing a hand to the mirror, scraping the blunt edge of his knife the length of the wall, or, at some point, plucking a coin from one of the candy dishes and flipping it.
b. 4th-ish attempt
He doesn't bother with the furniture or the walls—any of the trappings. His hair's a soggy mess but he's outfitted himself with a puffy jacket with growling cartoon bear on it. One sleeve dangles empty at his side. William's gaze is fixed on the mirror as he moves it around, rotates it this way and that. You may get an inadvertent close-up of his face as he peers into it.
If he catches sight of someone else, he'll take a step back. “Hello. Hey.” He breaks into a small, private smile. Raises a hand in a not-quite-wave.
Tilt your own mirror just so and you may see—or think you see—his ring finger disappear, a ragged nub in its place.
william | westworld | ota
The wind's shrieking is unreal. Buildings bend like trees, the ground rumbles like a belly-laugh, and William's sense of reality turns inside out so many times that for an insane moment he stops and wonders: fuck, where did I park. He loses his coat—it flaps off like some newly liberated bird—and staggers through the first door he can wrench open.
He breathes out. The lights are dim—maybe they're failing. Water sloshes in from somewhere, soaks his boots before receding. He hurries into the hallway.
There's piano music playing in the distance, static-distorted but implacable. No matter how far he walks, no matter where he turns, it neither fades nor grows louder. It just persists, an endless loop. It's not until he starts to hum along that he finds the first radio—his hand brushing against it. As though it'd been there all along.
BUTTON UP YOUR OVERCOAT, it counsels upon being picked up. WHEN THE WIND IS FREE
“Thanks,” he mutters, teeth chattering. The room he's in—looks like a train platform, sans tracks, sans train, sans old gum and the smell of urine. He props himself against an inexplicable turnstile and frowns at the radio in his hand. “Billy,” it singsongs, and he drops it. He knows that voice, her voice, the early-morning roughness to it.
The radio spits out a few sparks—as though clearing its throat—and continues: “Billy boy, you never sleep this late.”
“Fuck me,” William says, at the same time his own voice issues from the radio, younger, to his ears. Blearily playful. “Stop, I hate...shit, what time is it?”
Her laugh spills out of the radio. William drops to the floor, twists the dial. Hits the off switch. "Negative," the radio snaps. "Negative," another chimes in. "Negative, the pattern is full."
Feel free to come across this mess now or later, when he's set one radio atop the turnstile, scrounged up two others, and—actively shivering—stares intently at them. He may not even turn at the sound of someone else approaching, or may greet them with a “shhh!”
ii. i have no preconceptions | bad luck
He lands on a trampoline.
It's broken.
William can't muster a sound, let alone an intelligible word. Something—his body—makes a popping noise and pain streaks down his shoulder. He opens his eyes—it hadn't mattered before, in the dark—to snow swirling around him. With a long, miserable groan he shifts to his side, and as though lying in wait, the trampoline jerks beneath him, collapsing with a rusty screech. He slides off into the street, gets unsteadily to his feet.
His boot's untied.
His shoulder's dislocated. He spent the past who-knows-how-long hurtling through blackness, first struggling, then yelling, the just wishing for it to end. He's said fuck so many times it doesn't seem worth saying again.
And William gingerly lowers himself to a seat on the edge of the trampoline, one of the shadows moves.
iii. whatever i see i swallow immediately | mirrors
iv. wildcard!