Intermission: A Chat Between Friends

Herman was already there when Arabella arrived. He sat cross-legged on a padded bench, blue jumpsuit flecked with ash and sand, the battered yellow hard hat beside his foot. He looked, for all the world, like a man waiting for his date at a very exclusive off-brand barbecue. A pair of earbuds, their wires twisted around like a helix, hung from his pocket.

Arabella wore white again, but not the cocktail sheath she’d favored earlier. This was a loose, Grecian thing, draped and belted, and she moved in it with the easy confidence of someone who owned every thread. She’d brought a bottle of wine, which she set between them. The glass was green, with no label, condensation running down its length. She poured two cups—tin, not crystal—and handed one to Herman.

He took it, sniffed. “Not from the resort bar.”

“Of course not,” Arabella said, sitting across from him. “They only serve the kind that’s safe for mortals.”

Herman grinned. “You never know. Safety is a selling point these days.” He took a sip, then another, eyes closed. “Greek?”

Arabella laughed, delighted. “Santorini,” she said. “You can still find the old vineyards, if you know where to look.” She gestured towards her dress. “I felt it was appropriate.”

He nodded approval, then drank again, this time deeper. “I missed this,” he said. “The old stuff. The kind that stings going down, and then comes back for a second round.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.” Arabella curled her bare feet up beneath her. “I remember how you drank at the Symposium.”

Herman barked a laugh, sharp enough to startle the geckos on the rocks. “Different times,” he said. “They let me bring my own cup back then.” He eyed the flames, then the ocean beyond. “Nice spot you’ve got here. Is this where you take all the troublemakers?”

She smiled. “Only the ones I owe a debt.” She raised her cup in a lazy salute. “Thank you for coming.”

“Favor’s a favor,” Herman said, waving it off. “And besides, I owed you. Or maybe you owed me? Hard to keep track.”

“We’ll call it even,” Arabella said.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. The fire hissed, the ocean muttered in its sleep. Above them, the stars looked close enough to poke with a stick. On the far side of the island, the resort lights were hidden behind the black, churning wall of the mountain. Out here, only the flames and the moon paid attention.

After a time, Herman spoke. “So, how’s Mildred?”

Arabella’s lips twitched. “It’s still furious. But there’s not much it can do about it, these days.”

“Can’t say I blame it,” Herman said, smirking. “If someone locked me in a uniform and made me fetch towels, I’d probably snap a few heads, too.”

Arabella rolled her eyes, but there was affection in it. “You always had a soft spot for it.”

He shrugged, nonchalant. “We have an understanding. Most of us didn’t choose what we are.” He finished his cup, poured another. “But you didn’t haul me out here to talk about the help. Or the wine, even. I did mean to catch up with you, before you called, you know? Genet worries too.”

Arabella regarded him for a long moment, weighing the next move.

“No,” she agreed. “I didn’t.” She smiled. "Genet is sweet. Tell her I send my love, next time you see her."

They lapsed into silence again, but this time it was heavier, the pause after a joke that might be the last. The waves pounded, relentless, and the fire burned low and mean.

Herman flicked the ash. “So what’s the real story?” he asked, eyes never leaving the fire. “You never call unless you need something, and you never need anything unless there’s something you want even more.”

Arabella turned her glass, the wine inside reflecting a sliver of flame. “Maybe I just wanted to see you again.”

He laughed, but it was too quick. “Right.”

She lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “It was a risk,” she said, voice quieter. “Bringing you in, I mean. The new touchscreen was an excuse, but the result was always going to be unpredictable. I thought you’d enjoy the mischief, but it’s not worth it if you’re worried about your standing with the Verant.”

Herman held the cigarette between his teeth, then plucked it free, tapping the end against his knee. “I don’t mind mischief,” he said. “And I’ve got a lot less to lose with the Producers than you do. But I do mind collateral. You took a big risk. If it hadn’t been for me, they would have noticed for sure.”

Arabella’s fingers drummed on her wine glass, a staccato only someone who spent decades in human company would notice. “Granted. It wasn’t my first choice. But the alternatives were worse.”

Herman crushed the cigarette, then tossed it into the pit. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Arabella.”

She laughed, louder now, and for a moment the old, ferocious Host returned. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve played more games than you’ve had hangovers.”

He relaxed again, sinking deeper into the chair. “Fair. But you called me for a reason, and it wasn’t to reminisce about the old days.” He let the silence stretch, then added: “Or to talk about Percy.”

Arabella’s lips parted, then turned up in a wicked little grin. “Oh, Percy. I suppose you heard.”

He nodded. “Word gets around. But you and Percy go way back. I always thought you two would…”

“Implode?” she said, arching an eyebrow.

“Something like that.”

Arabella studied the fire, then said, “Percy and I do a bit more than ‘go way back,’ Herm. You know that.” She swirled her wine, then met his gaze, the Host mask gone for a heartbeat. “But I needed your help because I’m trying something new. And if I fail…” She trailed off, then lifted the glass and sipped, the motion as precise as a chess move.

For a second, Herman looked as if he’d been hit with a sudden chill. He blinked, then let out a slow, disbelieving laugh. “You’re serious.”

She said nothing, only sipped her wine.

He shook his head, not in disbelief, but in admiration. “You never did know when to quit.”

Arabella smiled, this time with teeth. “And you never did know when to stop helping.”

He barked a laugh, then spread his arms in mock surrender. “Here I am, then. At your service.”

She leaned in, voice low. “Thank you, Herm. I mean it.”

For a moment, the ocean and the wind and the fire were the only sounds in the universe. Then, softly, he said, “You sure you want to go through with it? Even if you pull it off, you’ll be on the wrong side of everyone who matters.”

Arabella nodded. “I know.”

Herman picked up a stone from the sand, rolled it in his palm, then tossed it into the fire. “Then I hope it works,” he said, “because if it doesn’t, you’ll wish I’d never fixed the elevator.”

Arabella smiled, tired but genuine. “About that, and your help with the Master… thank you.”

They sat quietly, sipping their drink. The wine made the dark thicker and the flames brighter, as if the boundaries of the world had shrunk to the six-foot circle of warmth and the infinite cold beyond. The ocean kept its pulse going, steady and slow, a living metronome for conversations that could last a century.

Herman stood up and prowled the rim of the firepit, arms folded. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but not unkind.

“You know, I’ve met a lot of first-gen Hosts in my time. You all think you’re special. Unique. But—beg your pardon—you’re not.” He picked up a driftwood stick and poked the fire, sending up a cloud of sparks. “Not that the second batch were any better. Did you hear that Nimue resurfaced?”

Arabella nodded. “Yes, I did. Good for her. That was a bad season altogether. But I hear she’s changed now, or maybe she’s not on a short leash anymore. I wrote her.”

“Older Hosts don’t change, Ara. That’s the one thing that makes the system work.”

Arabella laughed, but this time the sound was sharp, almost dangerous. “You sound like a Westworld character,” she said.

He gave her a slow, sidelong look. “You know what’s funny about that?”

She arched a brow, waiting.

Herman looked at her, and the corner of his mouth curled up. “That’s exactly what you shouldn’t sound like. You’re not supposed to know Westworld. How did that make it into your memory palace?”

Arabella’s lips curled. “Maybe I’ve been cheating.”

Herman’s smile went thin, then vanished. “When did you start?”

She let the silence ride. The fire’s glow traced the line of her jaw, the dip of her clavicle. After a moment, she admitted, “I spent some time in the human world. Before this season.”

Herman’s eyebrows shot up. “You did what? Hosts aren’t supposed to—”

“We’re supposed to scout for Masters, yes,” Arabella interrupted, her voice calm. “And for Contestants. I did my job. But I went a little earlier, and stayed longer than I had to.”

He circled the pit, coming to stand across from her. “Why?”

She shrugged. “I had some… cleanup to do.”

That got him. “What kind of cleanup?”

“Personal,” she said. She poured what was left of the wine into her cup, then set the bottle aside. “You’re not the only one who makes messes.”

Herman barked another laugh. “Fair enough. But I hope you didn’t pull a Ciela. You know what happened to her.”

“Nothing of the sort. I’m not planning to end up like her,” Arabella said, but there was a flicker in her eyes. “I’m not that reckless.”

“Seems pretty reckless to me,” Herman said. He sat down again, closer this time, elbows on his knees. “You’ve got a good thing going, Ara. I get the urge to shake things up, but this… this is more than that. You’re gambling everything. For what? For a boy who can’t even pick a favorite until the last possible minute?”

She looked at him, and her smile was small but sincere. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Herman shook his head, grinning. “I knew you were nuts, but I didn’t realize you’d gone soft.”

Arabella reached into the fire, plucked a stick with her bare hand, and twirled it like a baton. The flames curled around her fingers but didn’t burn. “You’re projecting,” she said. “You always liked to play the rebel, but you never wanted to take the heat.”

“I like the heat just fine,” Herman replied, his voice dropping. “But I know how to survive it.”

They sat in the heat for a long moment, neither moving. Then Herman broke the standoff.

He looked at her, really looked, and saw the hollow under her eyes that hadn’t been there before. “You alright, Ara?”

“I’m fine,” she said, but the lie was as transparent as the wine glass in her hand.

Herman leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, I was glad to help you. You saved my ass once, I owed you. But you got a lot less wiggle room than me. If the Producers find out you’ve gone off-script, you’re not just getting the cut.”

She laughed, brittle. “You don’t think I know that?”

“Then why risk it?”

Arabella’s fingers dug into the stem of her glass, leaving prints in the condensation. “Because the old way wasn’t working. Because I wanted to see if I could change something—anything—without the whole system snapping back like a rubber band.” She gave him a sidelong smile. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you’d notice.”

He snorted. “I noticed. You’re not the same Host I met at the First Gate.”

That drew a real laugh, low and dark. “You’ve changed too… Proopylaios.”

He winced. “Haven’t heard that name in a long time.”

Arabella’s expression softened. “We’re all just gatekeepers in the end. Even the contestants. Even Andy.”

Herman nodded, letting the idea take root. “So what do you get out of this round? If it works, what changes?”

She looked at the horizon, where the ocean met the sky. “Maybe nothing.” She turned to him. “But at least the Master gets one more week with all his Contestants. One more chance to figure out what he really wants. And maybe he surprises me, and things are different this time.”

“You testing him?” Herman asked, voice soft.

Arabella nodded. “Everyone gets tested, Herman. The Master. The contestants. Me. Probably even you. How’s your father?”

He tilted his head. “Haven’t seen him in a while.” His grin came back. “But what’s so special about this Master? This batch of contestants?”

Arabella’s gaze sharpened, the Host mask sliding back into place. “That’s not for you to know, Herm. Not yet.”

Herman raised both hands in surrender. “Had to try.”

She leaned closer, her breath warm in the cooling night. “Don’t push, Herm. Not here. This is my island, and you’re still a guest.”

He laughed, genuine. “You always did like having the last word.”

She gave him a look that was all velvet and knives. “And you always liked pretending you didn’t care about it.”

He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the fire, where it vanished without a sound. “I don’t think you know how dangerous you’re being. You should be careful,” he said, voice pitched low, private. “I know you think you’ve got this covered, but if you’re wrong—if they catch on—you’ll be lucky to get reassigned to a storage locker.”

Arabella smiled. “You worry too much, Herm. I’m not even in the top three for shenanigans this cycle.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re watching you, even if you can’t see it.” He hesitated, then added, “You always got the best ratings. That gives you a lot of latitude with the Producers. Don’t fuck it up.”

She snorted, then sobered. “This season, the numbers are only… middling.”

That stopped him. “Seriously?”

Arabella nodded. “Viewership has been flat since the reset. Perhaps the Master and his harem aren’t dramatic enough. Some viewers are hungering for eliminations. Or they’re waiting for me to pull a Sylvia.”

He shrugged, the motion more gentle than dismissive. “Give it time. You know how these things go. Sometimes a story needs to bake longer before it’s worth eating.”

Arabella let out a breath that fogged the rim of her wine glass. “You don’t need to make me feel better, Herman.” She smiled. “I don’t mind. I’ve had middling seasons before.”

He looked at her, then down at the fire. “I know. One or two. But I just don’t like to see you take the fall when it was always a rigged game.”

She laughed, once. “Maybe it is. But this season is special.”

He watched her, green eyes searching her face for any sign of a tell, then gave up. “You always did like to bet on the outlier.”

She tilted her head. “Only way to ever win.”

He grinned. “Yeah. There’s a reason why I always liked you the best.” He stared into the fire, let the silence expand. “I mean it, Ara. If you need backup, just call. I’ll come running.”

She looked away, blinking hard. “I know.”

He stepped closer, the soft scrape of his boots loud in the hush. When he spoke again, his tone was almost clinical. “I was glad to help, for the record. Even if it goes sideways. Just don’t expect me to bail you out twice.”

Arabella smiled, but it was brittle now, the kind that preceded a long night and a bad hangover. “You’re a good friend, Herm.”

He made a face. “I hoped for a little more than that.” Her eyes sparkled mischievously, and he laughed. “Oh, you minx. Fine, you win.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, fished out a silver coin, and set it on the flat rock beside her. “For luck,” he said. “Or for the ferryman, if it comes to that.”

She picked up the coin, turned it in her fingers. It was old—ancient, maybe—worn smooth on one side, the other stamped with a double-faced god, smiling and frowning at once.

She looked up. “Thank you.”

He nodded, the briefest bow. “Safe travels, Ara. And… I hope next time we meet, it’s under better circumstances.”

She rose, the dress swirling around her ankles, and reached out to touch his arm. “Next time, it’s your wine. And your rules.”

He grinned, sad and sly. “If there is a next time.”

She watched him turn, watched the way the darkness swallowed him up, until all that was left was the yellow gleam of the hard hat bobbing on the path. Then even that vanished, and the world was just the fire, the sea, and the silence.

Arabella sat down again, the silver coin cold in her palm. She watched the last embers curl and collapse into ash, the heat fading but never truly gone.

She rolled the coin across her knuckles, once, twice, then closed her hand over it, feeling the weight.

One more week, she thought. One more chance.

She hoped Andy would use it well.