The Stray Thread (Westworld OC-Insert)

[FireWalkWithMe99]

Lydia rather uncouthly slammed the door shut, sealing off the days troubles quickly tossing her work bag on the couch, sneakers kicked off in what her mother would definitely not approve of as "proper shoe storage." The apartment was quiet as usual, the peace broken only by the buzz of the prehistoric overhead light as she switched it on.



Her gaze wandered to the TV stand, landing on her collection of developmental psych texts—the ones she'd sworn would change everything—and her well-worn DSM-III, its pages dog-eared from late-night studying. Below sat what may as well been relics, of another age, The collector's edition of O Brother Where Art Thou sat neatly beside her dusty PS4. Next to that was the Westworld Season 1 steelbook set. She hadn't touched any of them in two, maybe three years now. The sight felt more burdensome than it should have, The games, the shows, even the old Guitar Hero controller leaning in the corner. Her old interests now stagnant and covered in a not so light coating of dust.



Perhaps the sentimentality was due to her physically involved session with the Johnson's tonight though spending 2 hours, wrangling their 9 year old son Daniel into an hour of ABA therapy would do that. He was a bright kid, much more than most realized, but his parents were running on fumes. They weren't bad people, just tired. She understood that exhaustion. It was the kind of thing you couldn't truly shake. Especially when you lacked the means for more involved care.



The hardest part wasn't the work. Lydia had come to terms with long hours and low pay years back. What got to her were the families who didn't have a Daniel asking endless questions about the Stegosaurus— Other homes had a Mrs. Valdez, who'd pull her sleeves down, voice would get smaller when her husband entered the room. The bruises told a clearer story than her excuses ever could. Lydia had filed the report, of course she always did, but it never stopped haunting her. What happens to kids like hers when the system fails, where did they even go?




Lydia let her head fall back letting her mind drift away to other concerns. Five months.The number had been troubling her since she'd hit submit on her applications, lurking in her mind during work, during dinner, those endless nights when sleep wouldn't come. Five months until everything changed or nothing did.



Dr. Martinez's voice echoed in her head: "You're beyond good enough, Lydia. Brown would be lucky to have you. Apply." She could still see the application being thrust in her hands, could still feel that flicker of rebellion—because really, an Arkansas State undergrad at Brown? But there was something about Dr. Martinez that made you listen. Maybe it was how she reminded Lydia of Aunt Sarah, with that same take-no-bullshit attitude that had gotten her through her roughest teenage years.



Lucky. She snorted at the thought, pulling out her laptop its many battle scars from extended stays in her bag appearing as they caught light. It wheezed to life, like the seasoned warrior it was taking its sweet time as always. When she finally logged in and clicked her email inbox, a bold red notification stared back.



Subject: [Lydia Moore] Your Brown University Application Status.



Her mouth went dry. Mouse hovering over the email. It was probably a rejection. Statistically, it had to be a rejection. Just how numbers worked, and Lydia had always had a knack for numbers—especially those that told her not to get her hopes high. But some stupid, irrational part of her kept hoping anyway.



"Okay," she whispered. "Let's rip the Band-Aid off."



She clicked.



The word was right there: Congratulations . Big, bold, and impossible to misread. Lydia blinked. Then again. Her heart pounded like she'd just sprinted a mile. "Wait, what?"



Her eyes darted over the text, reading the whole email twice because surely there was a catch, right? But no. It wasn't a joke. They'd accepted her into their Clinical Child Psychology track. With a 210,000 dollar scholarship no less, which from what she understood was academic-speak for "we actually want you here."



Her hands shook as she laughed wildly, not really sure if due to disbelief, or some sleep deprived hysteria. She wanted to scream, but there was no one to share it with. So she stared at the screen, letting the revelation of the email truly sink in .



Instinctively she looked to the shelf again. Five months. Five whole months without having to worry about more grad school applications or penny-pinching until her bank account screamed. She could let herself relax for five months, couldn't she? Pick up a new hobby, maybe even finish that Celeste or NieR playthrough she abandoned ages ago.



Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she stared at the acceptance email. Five months of freedom to enjoy the things I missed. Then the rest of my life working the job I dreamed of.



Lydia shut the laptop and stood, stretching the stiffness from her shoulders. She was excited but the revelation also brought a great sense of calm to her… Sure, she wasn't naive enough to think Ivy League grad school would be easy, but she knew the truth: prestigious schools took care of their own in ways state schools simply couldn't. Part of her still felt like an imposter- some girl from the sticks heading to Brown? Though the certainty of leisure time now and better job prospects later brought a warmth to her chest she couldn't quantify.



Maybe she could take advantage of the calm she felt and finally get some actual rest for once.

---

Lydia changed into her pajamas, glancing one last time at her room as she climbed into bed. Smiling as she traced the outline of the Johnny Cash record hung above it. Dad had given her that years ago, back when she still thought she'd follow in his footsteps in Psychiatry. He'd always been a fan of the old storytellers of music. She wondered if he'd believe her now, heading to Brown. Probably not.

The bed creaked as she sank into it feeling that earlier warmth consume her and yet, as she lay there, staring at the ceiling. Her head throbbed, sharper than the usual stress headaches, and there was this sound—a strange mechanical buzz that seemed to hover just at the edge of her hearing. but when she sat up, it was gone. She shook her head, rolling her eyes.



"Get a grip, Lydia," she muttered, flopping back in bed. "This is what happens when you mainline coffee and anxiety for two years straight."



She shifted her pillow and embraced cool against her right cheek as she closed her eyes tranquil, letting exhaustion drag her into a deep and dreamless slumber. If only she'd known it would be the last night in her world.

---

The first thing Lydia noticed was the cold.



It seeped through her shirt, sending goosebumps prickling through her skin. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the bright, sterile light above. The ceiling was high smooth and had a strong white glow. Definitely not her ceiling, with its browned water stain that looked like Hawaii three feet above her head.



She jolted upright, fingers clenching around sleek leather armrests which was wrong, deeply so, because she'd fallen asleep in her bed, not some fancy office chair her office chair wasn't even leather. Her head swam for a moment, pulse pounding in her ears bile building in her throat. She gripped the armrests more harshly for some sense of grounding.



When the room finally stopped spinning, she forced herself to look more closely at her surroundings. Everything was foreign to her pristine glass and steel it looked perfect in a disturbing sort of way, the very same mechanical hum from last night softly threading through the air. It looked impressive but lifeless; it felt like a movie set, far too sharp-edged and clean to be real.



Her eyes landed on the desk in front of her. It was disturbingly tidy, with a glowing tablet resting in the center. Beside it was a small, polished nameplate:



Dr. Lydia Moore – Psychiatrist



Her breath caught. "What?" she muttered, her voice cracking in the stillness. She leaned forward, staring at the nameplate like it might explain itself. That's not… I didn't—hell, I specifically chose child psychology to avoid becoming another Dr. Moore.



Her thoughts stumbled as she glanced down at her clothes. Last night she'd fallen asleep in her favorite flannel PJs—the ones with little penguins wearing scarves that Cousin Rachel had given her as a joke. Now... now she was wearing something that belonged in a completely different universe from anything in her closet.She found herself in a crisp charcoal dress that whispered "executive".



The fabric was no doubt expensive—the kind she'd only encountered in high-end store windows in Little Rock, or Batonville she'd quickly hurry past. Even her few "special occasion" dresses—the ones reserved for job interviews and Aunt Sarah's wedding last spring—weren't nearly this refined. Those were practical pieces, chosen more for their ability to project "responsible professional" than any real fashion statement.



This... this was different. The tailoring was immaculate, clearly chosen by one who knew a hell of a lot more about power dressing as an art form than she. It was completely at odds with her usual philosophy of dressing casual but conservative to put her young clients at ease—especially those on the spectrum who could be overwhelmed by too much formality. Her boss had always pushed for a more "polished" look when they visited wealthier clients, but Lydia had stubbornly stuck to her middle ground: clean lines, gentle colors, nothing that created distance between her and the children who needed her help.



Her last memory was staring at her acceptance email then retreating to a more difficult sleep than she expected.



What the hell is going on?



A soft knock at the door made her jump. Before she could respond, the door opened, and a man stepped inside. He was on the tail end of middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair and a tailored gray suit that both seemed to absorb the light in different ways. His expression was friendly enough a grin reaching his eyes, but there was something troubling about his gaze.



"Dr. Moore," he said, his voice smooth. "I trust you've had time to settle in."



Lydia froze, her mind racing. The title threw her off again, making her stomach twist. "Uh… yes," she said reflexively, her voice shaky. "I mean—sorry, I just… I'm fine. Just woke up from a strange dream, I guess." Or still in one, her mind supplied.



His eyebrows lifted just the smallest amount as he marched further into the room, closing the space between them. "I see," he said, his tone causing her goosebumps to resurge. "I trust all is well now?"




"Yes," Lydia said quickly, plastering on her best 'everything's totally normal' smile—the one she usually saved for worried parents. "Just out of sorts for a second."



He nodded, though the tension in his posture barely changed. "Good. I'd hate to think we'd misjudged your skillset. The situation with Mr. Delos requires the utmost discretion and a well practiced hand."



Lydia's heart did a strange little stutter. "Mr. Delos?" she asked, trying to keep her voice level.



The man gave her a smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on a shark. "Logan Delos. Your assigned patient. I trust you've reviewed the file?"



A queasiness came over her at the name, pulling at something in her memory, but what? "I, uh, haven't gone as deeply as I'd like," she said, stalling.



He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. "I see." He gestured to the glowing tablet on the desk. "Everything you need is there. I suggest you finish up quickly, your first session is in 20 minutes."



"Right," Lydia said, nodding automatically. Her palms felt clammy, she had no idea who this man thought she was, but she couldn't let him realize she didn't belong here. Not until she figured out what in the hell was happening.



The man lingered for a moment, his eyes taking on an even more predatory glint. "Dr. Moore," he said finally, "this is a delicate assignment. Delos has placed considerable trust in your known expertise. I trust you'll rise to the occasion."



She swallowed something rough, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "Of course," she said. "You can count on me."



His smile thinned to something barely perceptible. "Excellent. I'll leave you to your practice." He turned marching back the way he entered, pausing only to glance over at her again. "And do take care of yourself, Doctor. We're counting on you."



With that, he disappeared, a door clicking shut behind him.



Lydia slumped back in the desk chair, hands clutching the armrests again for some semblance of familiarity as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. Logan Delos. Where do I know that name from? Her mind scrambled to connect the dots. She glanced down at the somewhat odd looking tablet glowing an airy blue, and reached for it.



The screen displayed a single file: Logan Delos – Patient History . The name hit her again, snapping some switch she didn't know was there. Delos. The Delos family. Something about a tech company… and a man named Logan.



Her breath caught as fragments of a story came to the front of her mind. No. That's impossible. None of that was real.



She shook her head, trying to steady her thoughts. This had to be a dream or some feverish delusion, the kind that feels real until you wake up. But the fine leather beneath her fingers far too textured, the light breeze of the air conditioning leading a chill against her skin. Despite the drastic change of location and dress, it all felt too real in a distinctly familiar way.



She stared at the tablet for a long moment before finally swiping it open.



Before she could delve farther into the file, there was another knock. This time, a woman came in dressed in mint green scrubs, a rather large blue clipboard tucked against her chest. "Dr. Moore? Mr. Delos is in place for his session."



Lydia froze, her chest tightening. "Right," she said, her voice faint. "I'll be there in a minute."



The nurse nodded and left, leaving Lydia alone. She exhaled, standing a bit unsteady. Whatever was happening she didn't have much choice but to play along at least until she could get out of this building.

---

A.N. Hello!!! I've written my share of crossovers and OC stories, but this one's different. I wanted to explore the corporate underbelly—specifically, Logan Delos's story before things got really sideways. As I rewatched some scenes from the show and reflected on his full arc, I couldn't shake how tragic it was, and the more I've seen how addiction impacts people in real life, the more his story hits me on a personal level.

This project was born out of this idea. I wanted to explore Logan's world—his struggles, the corporate power plays that shaped his downfall, and the people around him. While the hosts are an incredible part of Westworld, this story leans into the human side of the show's universe: the manipulation, sabotage, and moral ambiguity of Delos's operations. Not for certain if hosts won't still show up on some level I do debate on whether I want this to be a long fic or something a bit shorter more focused on Logan and the OC specifically.

So, here we are. This story is both a chance to dig deeper into Logan's character and a way for me to explore themes of addiction, redemption, and agency in a setting that's fascinating but also ruthless. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it so far.

I also wanted to rec the author FS_Holmes35_G various logan delos related fics. Which also at least in part inspired this venture.

NOTE TO QQ SPECIFICALLY: Given QQ is much more chill about smut I probably will eventually have some chapters or at least sections of chapters on QQ only since I do plan to write some more nsfw content eventually for this story. Though it's not gonna be right away.

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

Lydia's thumb hovered over the tablet screen as she read it. The file started feeling more like a bad report card, than a patient file.


Date: Apr, 6th 2024
Logan Delos
Age: 34

The name itself gave her a headache Logan Delos. Not just some random rich kid spiraling out, but the Logan Delos. The man William left broken at the edge of the park, the son James Delos in all but name discarded like a failed investment. She pressed her fingers against her temples, willing herself to wake up in her cramped apartment with its water-stained ceiling and temperamental heating. But the polished chrome and glass of this office remained stubbornly real.

The diagnostic info that followed started out like a variety dealers grocery list:


Primary Diagnosis: Polysubstance Use Disorder (severe)

• Cocaine (primary substance)
• Methylenedioxymethamphetamine (MDMA/"Ecstasy")
• Dextroamphetamine
• Ketamine
• Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate (GHB)
• Prescription opioids (Oxycodone, Hydromorphone)
• Benzodiazepines (Alprazolam, Diazepam)
• Alcohol

Secondary Diagnoses:

• Major Depressive Disorder, recurrent
• Psychotic Disorder NOS with paranoid features
• Impulse Control Disorder NOS

Current Substance Use Pattern:

• Daily cocaine use (intranasal)
• MDMA use 4-10x monthly
• Ketamine use (frequency variable unclear)
• Regular benzodiazepine use (non-prescribed)
• Daily alcohol consumption
• Other substances used intermittently

Current Presentation:

• Persistent paranoid ideation
• Auditory/visual hallucinations (drug-induced vs. primary unclear)
• Erratic behavior
• High-risk decision making
• Treatment resistance

Previous Treatment:

• Multiple incomplete rehabilitation attempts
• Non-adherence to prescribed medications
• Poor engagement in therapy

Not a particularly unusual conclusion when it came to diagnoses especially when all the illicit drug usage was involved. Though something about the personal notes from others who've treated Logan, were questionable to her.


Dr. Sarah Chen, MD, Psychiatrist - Mount Sinai (3/9/24) Patient continues to display hostile and uncooperative behavior. Claims of surveillance and family interference persist without evidence. Prognosis poor without significant behavioral changes. Recommend continued medication management. [REDACTED] raises concerns about treatment efficacy.

Dr. Muhammad Al-Rashid, PhD, Clinical Psychologist (2/1/24) Patient resistant to therapeutic intervention. Deflects with sarcasm and aggression. History suggests [REDACTED], though patient refuses to discuss. Multiple missed appointments. Treatment unlikely to progress.

Dr. Anjali Patel, MD, Addiction Specialist (12/10/23) Subject left 30-day program after 12 days. Displayed manipulative behavior. Claims of being forcibly admitted require investigation but appear unfounded. Not recommended for readmission.

Dr. James Wilson, PsyD - Delos Consulting (9/5/23) Patient exhibits grandiose ideas about corporate position. [REDACTED - Incident Report #2847] suggests deeper issues than substance abuse alone. Family concerns about public behavior appear justified. Recommend increased supervision.

Dr. Min-ji Park, MD, Psychiatrist (7/12/23) Third session disrupted by patient's erratic behavior. Claims of [REDACTED] and childhood trauma appear defensive rather than genuine. Substance use continues despite interventions. Poor candidate for ongoing treatment.

Dr. Raj Kumar, MD, Addiction Medicine (5/20/23) Patient left against medical advice. Shows no genuine interest in recovery. [REDACTED - See Security Report]. History suggests the pattern will continue without external intervention.

Note from Facility Director (4/2/23) Previous incidents necessitate careful documentation. All sessions to be monitored. Persistent insistence on delusions regarding [REDACTED] requires immediate reporting to corporate oversight.


Despite how brief the notes she had access to were, still much of them were redacted. She assumed some of it concerned Logan's father, and William, maybe even westworld. But she still felt it was bad practice, cause anyone who didn't happen to know about the inner workings of the Delos family would have little idea what they were about until they had multiple sessions with Logan assuming he was in a sharing mode. Which from the notes it didn't seem he was, the clinical detachment barely masks their dismissal of him. Each note reading more like a justification for giving up than actual treatment documentation.


Sure, reading between the lines of these notes and knowing what she knew, she didn't doubt Logan Delos was often a grade-A ass—the entitled rich kid who'd never heard the word "no" until it was too late. But that's what struck her as odd. The Delos family had the kind of money that could buy entire pharmaceutical companies and hospital chains, let alone the best treatment money could possibly buy. She'd seen enough wealthy families to know there were specialists out there who made careers out of dealing with the most difficult, aggressive, resistant patients imaginable.



Hell, she thought of the Whitmores not even a drop in the bucket compared to Delos money, but comfortable enough. Their teenage son had been spiraling hard while she worked with their mostly non verbal young daughter Astrid. His hobbies involved stolen cars, pills and cocaine, not just weed, beer and attitude like most teenagers. But they'd found him a counselor who specialized in high-risk teens from privileged backgrounds, someone who knew how to crack that particular shell of entitlement and anger. A year later, even after months of him telling everyone to go to hell, he was actually making progress at least when she last was working with the family.


Her fingers tapped the image of Logan on the screen absentmindedly. The Whitmores often made millions per year well she would barely make 40k if that. The Delos family? They were in a whole different stratosphere of wealth. The kind of money that could hire a team of the world's best addiction specialists, trauma experts, whatever Logan needed. Instead, what she saw in these notes was a parade of half-hearted attempts at treatment.


It nagged at her. Maybe the uber-wealthy really did play by different rules, a strange thought that the gap of income between her and the Whitmore's was considerably closer than the gap between the Whitmores and the Delos family.—billionaires versus millionaires even the upper echelon of the latter was probably a whole other ballgame she couldn't even imagine. But still something felt off. Was Logan truly so incomprehensibly difficult even the best care in the world couldn't help?


The reminder that Logan was waiting echoed in her, she supposed only she could find out she already took too much time.
Lydia stood outside the door, gripping the tablet tightly against her chest. Her heart raced as she tried to steel herself. She couldn't afford to let her nerves show—not with Logan, not with anyone else who might be watching.

With a deep breath, she pushed the door open.

---

Logan was slouched in a chair, his arms draped over the sides, his head tilted back, and legs spread out far more than they needed to be. He wore a suit jacket that looked like it was tailored just for him, probably cost more than my last two cars combined, it hung open just enough to show a glimpse of a crisp white shirt pulled taut to his chest.


Despite the clear signs of hard living, bloodshot eyes and a tremor making itself known in his left hand, he had a certain magnetic quality. His stance, the way his dark hair fell in just the right way despite its current disheveled state. Even the smirk forming across his face as he looked up at her. It all spoke of the man she knew from the screen, the one she detested, for the longest time. Arrogant, and chaotic. Even now, worn down by whatever demons drove him here, he carried himself with an edge


"Well," he drawled sarcastically. "Look who finally decided to show up."


Lydia closed the door softly behind her, forcing herself to smile. "Mr. Delos," she said, her voice steady but quiet. "I'm Dr. Moore. It's nice to meet you."


"Dr. Moore, huh?" Logan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gave her an exaggerated once-over. "Well," he drawled, "looks like daddy's upgrading his taste in shrinks." "What's your angle? Let me guess, fix me up, ship me out, make it all nice and tidy for the family PR team?"


She felt a bit hurt by the insinuation but she kept her expression neutral. "I'm just here to help," she said, taking a seat across from him.


He snorted, leaning back again. "Help. Right. That's what the last guy said. And the one before him. And the one before that." His grin widened. "They didn't last long."


Lydia held his gaze, even as her pulse sped, uncertain if he was threatening or testing her.


"I read your file," she said, careful to keep her tone calm.


"Good," Logan said, his grin fading slightly. "Then you know I'm a lost cause. Saves us both some time."


"The file tells me what other people think. I'd rather hear your version." Lydia said firmly.


For a moment, there was silence. Logan stared at her, then he laughed bitterly. "You sound just like them. You know that? Always so eager at first. So sure of yourself."


She stayed quiet, letting him speak, communication was always important when it came to therapy even if it was vitriolic.


"You don't get it," Logan continued, his tone sharper now. "You think I'm in here because of the drugs? The parties? No. I'm in here because it's convenient." He leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. "They don't want me better. My dad, that fucker who stole my sister—they'd rather keep me here, out of the way, where I can't cause problems."


Lydia's throat tightened. She thought of what she knew, the redacted notes, the allegations of interference, the cold, clinical dismissal in the file. It wasn't paranoia—not entirely, possibly not at all. But she couldn't say that. Not now.


Instead, she kept her tone neutral. "That sounds like a lot to deal with."


Logan's eyes narrowed, his grin returning. "Oh, you're good," he said, his voice laced with mockery. "Careful. Noncommittal. You've got the shrink thing down."


She forced herself to smile faintly. "I'm just trying to understand."


"Sure you are," Logan said, leaning back again. "But it doesn't matter. You'll leave, just like the rest."


"Why do you think they did that?"


Logan's grin widened, but it was more bitter than amused. "Because they don't want me talking. And you don't either."


"Your file mentions substance abuse, Mr. Delos." Lydia kept her voice neutral, professional.


Logan's laugh was all expensive whiskey and sharp edges. "Really? That's what you're leading with?" He shifted in his chair, giving her another inappropriate once-over. "Let me guess—you drew the short straw? Got stuck with the rich junkie?"


"I'm just trying to establish some background."


"Background? Well I prefer that to a baseline" He smirked, running his finger along his his chair. "Sweetheart, Harvard was a snowstorm in the 2000's. Hell, half the board probably still does it." His eyes gleamed with something darker than amusement. "Not that anyone talks about that, of course. Bad for shareholder confidence."


Lydia noticed how he deflected the personal angle, keeping it about others. "So it was social?"


"Please." He rolled his eyes. "Don't try to psychoanalyze my party habits. I'm not one of your charity cases." He pulled out a silver flask—likely for show, she realized as the characteristic slosh of liquid was absent despite how wildly he handled it. "Though I'm sure that's what my file says. 'Poor little rich boy, spiraling out of control.'"


"Is that how you think I see you?"


"Oh, we're doing the mirror thing now?" His smile was all teeth. "Tell me, Dr. Moore, how many addicts have you actually treated? Or did they just throw you in here with a fancy title and hope for the best?"


He clearly was just trying to dig at her, but it was a bit unsettling how close he hit the mark, Still she tried her best to calm herself. "You seem pretty interested in my qualifications."


"Just trying to figure out what daddy dearest is paying for this time." He pocketed the flask without removing its lid. "Though you're definitely not the usual type. Too..." his eyes swept over her again, "...green. They usually send in the hardened types. The ones who think they've seen it all."


Despite logan being a few years her senior and his behavior reminded her a bit of the kids she worked who dealt with more traumatic familial situations, she remembered the Valdez boys, they would push buttons, looking for weak spots—Logan just had more sophisticated ammunition.


"And what happened to them?" she asked carefully.


His expression shifted, just for a moment, into something harder. "They moved on to easier patients. Less complicated cases." The threat in his voice was subtle but clear. "I'm sure you will too, eventually."


Lydia didn't take the bait, instead meeting his eyes which were like uncreated night, they weren't quite black but about the darkest shade of brown they could be before reaching the abyss but still she looked on with the same steady patience she used with her most defensive kids. "Maybe," she said simply. "But I'm still here now."


Logan leaned back, studying her like an interesting specimen in a lab. The silence stretched, broken only by that faint mechanical hum. Finally, he shrugged


"Sure," he mocked. "We'll see how long that lasts." He pushed himself up with relative grace, though she caught the slight tremor in his hands come again. "Good talk, doc. Real breakthrough material." He straightened his already-perfect tie, a nervous tell?. "Let's do this again sometime assuming you're still around."


Lydia remained seated, watching him in a way that would've probably unnerved most. His hand paused on the door handle, shoulders tensing like he wanted to say something else. Then, he was gone.


The door clicked shut and then came quiet, leaving her alone with the faintest sense of relief it was over.

---

After the session, Logan's comments about previous doctors kept nagging at her. His dismissive attitude made sense given the notes given those bare-bones notes in his file. Still, something about Dr. Muhammad Al-Rashid's observations caught her attention—he'd at least tried to dig deeper, even noting what she suspected was childhood abuse in those redacted sections.

Maybe she could reach out, get another perspective on Logan's case. Her search pulled up an article from March 24th, 2024: "Renowned Psychiatrist Dies in Single-Vehicle Accident." What?

Less than two months after his last notes on Logan. A discomfort began to weigh in her stomach. Okay, don't jump to conclusions, people get in accidents everyday, it doesn't matter where you are, tragedy sometimes just strikes. Dr. James Wilson next—he'd seemed to actually document something substantial, even if half of it was redacted and the start read as more rooted in corporate politics than anything actually beneficial. Relief flooded her when his name brought up results. He was alive, just... no longer with Delos. No explanation why. But she can't imagine people typically sharing such things with the papers no doubt he had to sign a few NDAs before he left.


Now she looked to Dr. Anjali Patel's name. The addiction specialist might have useful insights... except the only recent result was a missing persons report from January 12th. The same cold feeling crept back.


Dr. Sarah Chen at least had good news—there she was, featured in some glossy PR piece about helping a pharmaceutical CEO through grief counseling dated just yesterday April 5th. Two didn't make a pattern, she reminded herself. The kind of rational thing she'd tell some of the more imaginative kids when they saw monsters in coincidences.


She closed the browser, her left hand shaking slightly. Part of her wanted to keep digging, follow the thread to whatever dark place it led. But she remembered what logan said near the start of their session. "Because they don't want me talking. And you don't either."


This was not just any wealthy family, it was Delos.


Her eyes looked over the room again, scrutinizing section she'd overlooked before. The small camera lens in the corner. The way sound carried in this sterile space. Even the tablet in her hands was probably logging her every search, scroll and tap. Nothing in this borrowed life was truly private, probably not even her own personal property given how many "resources" Delo's had their strings on.


The urge to run hit her hard—just drop everything and bolt until she found her way back to her cramped apartment, her kids at the center, her normal life. Instead, she forced herself to keep scrolling through Logan's file, playing the part while her mind broke. How many specialists had Logan gone through? A long line of professionals who'd either quit or... something worse.


She had to find a way to help without asking the wrong questions too directly or preferably find some means of dimensional travel and get the hell out of dodge. In this world that wasn't so impossible right?

 

[FireWalkWithMe99]

To Lydia, the facility felt like a bizarre chimera of a high-end hotel and a sterile hospital—sleek lines and understated luxury masking something cold. Her shoes fell softly on well polished tile, the shoes which looked deceptively normal, they felt normal to like the few pairs of skate-cab sneakers she had back home. But upon closer inspection, the small embossed lettering near the heel read Dior. Which likely meant they were outrageously expensive for what was essentially a dressed-up pair of Converse.


Another aspect of wealth she didn't get. What was the point of something like this? Unless you were one of three people who could recognize that this normal shoe or this normal hat was, in fact, a status symbol, in all other ways it was still a normal shoe but marked tenfold the price it had any right to be.


The steps of said needless investment continued to echo in the hallways which only was amplified by their emptiness. Barely any staff. Barring some seemingly annoyed nurses in green scrubs and occasional security personnel nodding at her with some emotion a step above indifference.


She ran her hand along the wall time to time, surprised to find parts of it slightly damp. Daily cleaning?, maybe hourly, keeping everything pristine white. The kind of obsessive maintenance that spoke of deeper interest than simple cleanliness.


The place screamed money, from the recessed lighting to the abstract art pieces that likely cost more than her annual salary. But there were tells if you looked close, you saw the imperfection. Slight wear in the silicone between tiles, barely noticeable chips in the baseboards, hair-thin cracks in the paint where wall met ceiling.


Throughout her little self guided tour, the lack of faces stuck out. Was Logan the only patient at this place? It would be sensible, given Delos's resources, but something about the timeline felt off. Logan hadn't been immediately locked away after Westworld—that much she remembered from the show. He'd been found naked in the desert at the edge of the park, naked in more than just the literal sense. What kind of man emerges from that degree of trauma, and not to mention sunstroke, with their psyche intact? Add losing your birthright and family to the man who caused your breakdown…


She paused at a window, studying her distorted reflection in the glass. How long ago had that been? Logan's volatile state suggested relatively recent events, but she had no way to know for certain at least without straight up asking. Had William already secured his position? Was this some kind of cleanup operation, keeping Logan contained while the company changed hands?

---

Back in the office , that felt like a lie to think of as her own. Lydia looked at the file again accessing a different section. His prescription regiment. Maybe understanding the pharmaceutical side of his treatment would help her make sense of this place or at least get her mind off the potentially lethal cover up happening behind the veil…


There was a list of prescriptions, neatly cataloged alongside dosages and dates.


From a glance, it seemed straightforward. Antidepressants. Mood stabilizers. Sleep aids. Reasonable enough given the situation. Though examining the specifics yet again told a different tale when she worked hard to dig up the limited info she recalled from the material in her sophomore year of college from the recess of her mind. Back when she was uncertain what path she wanted to go, the psychiatrist or the counselor, she inevitably she picked neither.


The first medication on the list was fluoxetine, better known as Prozac. Not an uncommon choice for depression, often prescribed to stabilize mood and improve emotional regulation. But as Lydia stared at the dosage 40 milligrams, twice a day that seemed at least a tad exorbitant?


Prozac wasn't usually prescribed in such doses, could cause agitation, insomnia, and even psychotic symptoms. She'd learned about it in one of her psychopharmacology classes, There was a whole list of instances where Prozac exacerbated underlying issues rather than treating them.


She frowned, scrolling to the next prescription: olanzapine, an antipsychotic typically used for schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. The notes claimed it was prescribed to "address delusions and paranoia," , unfortunately this one Lydia lacked an informed background on, potentially it could be a good choice, though she reminded herself that Logan wasn't necessarily as delusional as people thought—he had simply recognized Williams' dark side earlier than most and had some genuine mental and drug issues exasperating the problem.


She did wonder why they paired it with Prozac. Whatever the full extent of Olanazapine's effectiveness. Antipsychotics weren't typically prescribed so lacadastically , certainly not to someone whose brain chemistry was already likely a rewired mess from substance abuse. God only knows what kind of damage those fancy party drugs, and the regular coke usage had already done to Logan's mind adding more powerful chemicals to the mix seemed about as smart as juggling knives.


Next was alprazolam, commonly known as Xanax. It was sometimes used for anxiety and panic disorders. But for someone with an active trend of substance abuse that was possibly the most negligent one. It would make more sense if they would just use one or two of these and definitely avoid any substances that would likely lead to Logan developing another craving, that seemed mighty far from the expert minds working with the disgraced heir, and this was not even the end of the list..


mbien) for sleep, notorious for causing hallucinations and sleepwalking. Then Trazodone on top of that, another sleep aid known for dizziness, confusion, and because why not worsened depression. Why do they need to prescribe two sleep aids? the pills hes already taking would likely invigorate his system enough where he wouldn't even need a sleep aid much less two.


Maybe they thought they needed something to counter the Prozac's insomnia side effects, even so why not search for a better alternative opposed to doubling down on pills, that could potentially cause more exasperated psychosis. In theory the pills could work like some demented system of checks and balances, but this wasn't theory this was in a human being, and they were playing pharmaceutical ping-pong with already fucked brain chemistry.



Why would the Delos family want their forlorn son treated like some science experiment…? Moreover Logan seemed in worse shape and no doubt was on the influence of something, or some sort of withdrawal, but all things considered he seemed relatively close what what she remembered, sharp enough to read her like a book, clever enough to play his little mind games. If he was actually taking this pharmaceutical cocktail, he should've been either zombie-level sedated or bouncing off the walls aggressively.


So that raised a few questions, was the mad science of the previous psychiatrists somehow sound and they came up with the perfect combination to center logan, none of the medications were affecting him (possible), or—most likely—he wasn't taking them at al or at least most of themBut that opened up another can of worms. Was the facility letting him skip his meds, or was Logan finding ways around their supervision? If he had found blind spots in their surveillance...well, that kind of information could come in handy. She wasn't sure she could safely confide in Logan himself but if there was a place away from Delos, or possibly Williams eyes here well that could prove necessary soon enough.


Part of her still felt the fiction of it all, But she'd met Logan now. Seen something in him that reminded her of of her toughest case, the one that ended long before it should have. She wanted to wake up back in her world, but right now that wasn't possible and she'd rather do something good with her time than continue to engage in whatever mental health atrocity Delos was cooking up with their former Heir apparent.


"Dr. Moore."


The voice startled her, she spun around to see the man from earlier—the one with salt-and-pepper hair. He stood just a few feet away, his suit seeming more like a weapon than clothing. She hadn't even heard him approach.


"I trust the session went well," he said calmly but their was no mistaking the undertone of expectation. "Logan can be… challenging."


Lydia's found herself staring at her shoes again for the briefest moment then looked up in the mans eyes. "It was… enlightening," she replied as sturdy as she could manage.


The man smiled, again it reached his eyes but there was no warmth. He took a step closer. "And what, exactly, did you discuss?"


The question felt less like curiosity and more like a test. Lydia hesitated. "...We talked about his perspective on therapy," she said carefully. "His feelings about being here."


The man's smile didn't falter, but his eyes darkened slightly. "I see. And did he happen to mention his family?"


"Briefly," Lydia said, her voice coming out more like a mouse's squeak than human words.


He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. Though his movements were unhurried still she felt rushed to be anywhere else but here. "Dr. Moore, I hope you understand the importance of this case. Logan's… circumstances require discretion. I trust you'll keep that in mind, and keep thinking forward."


Lydia nodded, the tension still not letting up as he gave her a final, pointed look before stepping past her.

---

The interaction left her rattled, nerves frayed as she made her way to this strange building's main entrance. The air outside was cool and crisp, quite the contrast to the suffocating atmosphere inside. She paused at the top of the outside steps, taking in her surroundings for the first time.


The facility was sleek and modern, its glass-and-steel exterior reflecting the aesthetics of its insides quite well the air felt normal enough, maybe a bit heavier, she wasn't sure how much of that was nerves and how much elevation. But beyond that somewhat calming familiar feeling of fresh air in her lungs, there was… nothing. No landmarks, no buildings, just a barren landscape that stretched into the horizon.


She glanced around for her car, but the parking lot was empty. A faint sense of panic began to creep in when out of nowhere, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb.


The tinted window rolled down, revealing an automated dashboard. A calm, mechanical voice greeted her: "Dr. Moore, your ride is ready."


Lydia hesitated, it seemed Delos controlled not just this 'Lydia's work, but her movements in quite a literal way. Yet with a therapeutic clench of her fist. She climbed into the car, wondering if this would be the last time she was seen…

---

A.N. Well I wasn't originally gonna end the chapter here but I felt it was a good end point and a bit of a temporary cliffhanger. I have a bit written past this but I debate if it needs more editing and well I find that I tend to work a bit better when I have at least a bit of the story written in advance of me posting. Trying to do this more often so I don't end up taking forever to update a story again.