Homicidal By Design [Hector Escaton]

Chapter 3

"We have a problem in the mountains near Sweetwater."

The Quality Assurance manager looked up from the expansive Westworld map with interest. "Another blacklisted exchange?"

The man pursed his lips uneasily. "I was notified that a host stabbed a guest."

"That's impossible," the woman commented with concern, pulling up the map of the mountains. "The host would have had to override its core programming, and then also override its Good Samaritan coding. The host would been compelled to self-destruct."

"It was near Escaton's camp. At the Outlaw Hunt narrative marker 1. We were also notified that a host was malfunctioning— Sheriff Pickett. I thought we could send a team down there and collect both units."

The woman frowned in confusion. "The sheriff malfunctioned, but another separate host stabbed the guest?"

"Hector was the one picked up by the triggered tracker. Happened to one Isabella Moore, while she and Leonard Price were on the outlaw hunt."

"Oh Jesus—could he had picked a worse time to act up again? Could he have picked a worse victim? Ugh I swear I ask every month if we can decommission Escaton, he can't go for more than a few weeks without skirting the rules with a guest! He has been a danger for a long time now! Lord knows why his bulk apperception is so high," she fumed. "This software update probably gave him the freedom to finally hurt someone seriously."

The man chuckled, knowing his manager's grievances with the often-plucky host. "Unfortunately, the macho men like to fight with him, the white hats like to kill him, and the women fantasize about fucking him. He's a popular attraction...although it seems like he finally went far enough for you to get your wish."

"Of course he did! He's homicidal by fucking design, this was just a matter of time. Send a team down to retrieve both hosts."

*******  

Completely disoriented, all Izzy could do was stare up at the sunset and gasp for air, but she vaguely noticed that the sound of gunshots had ceased in the haze of her mind. Moments later a concerned face was leaning over her. It was somehow familiar.

Izzy opened her eyes to the encroaching sunset darkness, the pain of an after-epi-pen headache in the back of her skull, and a new throbbing pain in her thigh. A little overzealous with the stabbing there, buckaroo. With a groan, she propped herself up on her elbows, her brain trying to make sense of her quiet surroundings. A chunk of loose hair fell in her face and she blew it out of the way.

How long had she been out? Where was she? "Len!" Izzy whispered forcefully. She didn't want to break the silence in case there was someone around. Someone like...

"Good. You are awake."

She started, her eyes darting in the shadows to find where the person was. She had never heard a voice quite like that before. It sounded genuinely pleased, and was colored with a Spanish accent that had an odd gravely quality to it. How fascinating to think that someone had designed that unique voice to fit a specific host. "Where am I?"

"You are right where you fell. Your...friends are back at my camp." The voice sauntered lazily through the words, as if it had no vested interest.

Izzy sighed in relief, so Len was okay. Not that he could be killed, but she still worried about him. "How long was I out?"

"Ehhh..." the voice pondered. "Thirty minutes or so. I did not know if you should be moved in your condition."