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Overheard in the Offices of Westworld

It’s a lot like Dunder Mifflin, but with more robot sex



Wetware systems engineers AMANDA and NASEEM are eating lunch after a long shift rebuilding host cranial cavities.

AMANDA: Check this out. Who am I?


AMANDA has molded mashed potatoes into the shape of a head. She slams a bread roll into the sculpture again and again. Gravy spurts out of the crater.

AMANDA: Raaaaaaaawrrrrrrr. [Makes a smashing sound with her mouth each time the roll strikes the mashed potato head.]


NASEEM: Will you stop it. You’re going to get written up.

AMANDA: For what?

AMANDA stares at NASEEM with faux ferocity and takes an ostentatious chomp out of the potato-and-gravy-smeared roll. She chews it open-mouthed, maintaining eye contact.

NASEEM: We’re not supposed to discuss host —

AMANDA: [In a mocking tone.] “You are not to discuss hosts’ injuries or issues outside your section.” Whatever. Hayseed caves his own face in — which, weird — and we can’t even talk about it? Everyone’s talking about it. Craziest glitch in years. The fucking lunch ladies are probably talking about it.

NASEEM: Pshht.

She gestures with her chin.

BERNARD walks by. AMANDA and NASEEM casually crane their necks to see what’s on his tray.

He’s heading to the other side of the cafeteria where THERESA sits.

NASEEM: Just water.

AMANDA: Told you.

NASEEM: Doesn’t mean anything.

AMANDA: No one has ever seen him drink anything except water or eat anything except Jell-O. Which is just freaking solidified sugar water anyway. That’s well within the parameters of what hosts —

NASEEM: Shhhhh!

AMANDA: … of what … [Whispers.] hosts … can ingest.

They consider this.

NASEEM: Maybe he eats in his room. They say he’s into wines.

ANGLE ON — BERNARD AND THERESA’S TABLE, where they are conversing seriously about something.


AMANDA: Oh, he’s eating something in there. Think they ever talk about “host issues outside of their section”?

They watch BERNARD and THERESA for a moment.

AMANDA [Impersonating Bernard]: Naseem, do you ever question the nature of your reality?

They both giggle.

NASEEM: You know, all I had was Jell-O. And water.



AMANDA looks at NASEEM’S tray, then back at NASEEM.

NASEEM makes her face go still. She tilts her head and smiles with precise robotic affect.

AMANDA: Oh fuck off.

AMANDA throws what’s left of her gravy-soaked roll at NASEEM, who breaks into laughter.



A nondescript office space filled with cubicles. At each cube, an operator sits and fields calls.

OPERATOR: Hello. Thank you for calling Westworld: A Delos Destination. Live without limits. Are you interested in booking a stay with us today?

The caller’s voice is barely audible through the operator’s headset. THE OPERATOR rolls his eyes and makes a circling motion with his pointer finger.

OPERATOR: Of course. I can help you with that. Do you already have an account with us … OK, well, I can open one for you now, if you like. We accept cards, Bitcoin accounts, and bank transfers. I … yes, well, when you reserve, a hold goes on your account for half the amount of … of course, I understand.

The caller says something about “statement” and “wife.”

OPERATOR: Of course. Delos values your privacy and all purchases, credits, or transfers are made with the utmost discretion.

THE OPERATOR catches the eye of the operator at the adjoining cubicle and makes a jack-off motion. The other operator responds by making an orgasm face.

OPERATOR: Every transaction with Delos appears on your statement as “Red Roof Inn,” and “Tony’s Best Chicken and Waffles.” So, there’s no need to …

The caller says something about “tens of thousands” and “motel” and “waffles.”

OPERATOR: Yes, well, one might think that it looks strange to be charged upward of $100,000 for a hotel stay, but …

The caller says something like, “Oh, you think?”

THE OPERATOR makes an exasperated face at the operator in the adjoining cubicle.

OPERATOR: But Delos has been doing this for over three decades, sir. Perishables, i.e., food and drink, and nontransferrable services, such as hospitality and lodging, are the best options for keeping your transactions private. You know, otherwise, someone might ask where the thing you spent all that money on was. If Delos labels your transaction as a real estate purchase, someone could be like, “Where’s the house?” And so on. If it’s a car, where’s the car? If it’s a yacht, where’s the yacht? This way, I mean, sure you spent 400 large on chicken and waffles, but you know … Some people just love waffles. You can say you picked up everybody’s tab. Whatever the case, no one will ask you, “Where the waffles at?”

The caller says, “That works?”

OPERATOR: As I said, Delos has over 30 years of experience in masking its guests’ transactions, sir. Never had an issue, never had a problem … Yes, sir. [Listening.] … So, ready to book?

THE OPERATOR fist-pumps and high-fives the operator in the adjoining cubicle.


A dim and dank concrete space that resembles an underground car repair shop. Naked hosts lie on slabs awaiting processing. TWO MAINTENANCE TECHS wearing hazmat suits and face guards toil at adjoining slabs. Each has a pushcart of tools that they work from.

TECH 1: [Cleaning jizz out of a host with a high-pressure water pick.] [Says something indistinct.]

TECH 2: [Replacing a mangled penis with a fresh unit.] WHAT?

TECH 1 turns off his water pick. He raises his plastic face guard. He’s wearing a surgical mask underneath. He slips that down under his chin.

TECH 1: I said, “So what do you think?”

TECH 2 raises his face guard and slips his surgical mask off in the same way as TECH 1.

TECH 2: I’ve had worse jobs, honestly. I mean the pay is shit but the benefits are solid. How long you worked here?

TECH 1: Four years this Christmas. You’ve been here, what, two weeks?

TECH 2 holds up two penises, one in each hand.

TECH 2: Two incredible weeks. What do you make now? If you don’t mind me asking.

TECH 1: I do mind. Sorry … It’ll depend on your yearly reviews. I aced all mine. Well, except for this last one, which, don’t ask. But if you get good yearlies, then you’re pretty much guaranteed a 1.5 percent bump each successive tour.

TECH 2: That ain’t shit.

TECH 1: It ain’t shit but it ain’t nothing. Know what I’m saying? Just don’t be afraid to kiss ass. Managers love me. Whenever they need an extra hand on deck, like, if a party just goes buckwild fucking up crucial story line hosts, I always volunteer. They remember that. Down here, nobody messes with you, you can listen to your tunes, it’s chill. Except Ford. Sometimes you see him heading to Sub 3, where they keep the Mark I’s.

TECH 1 picks a black-light lamp off his cart. He shines it on his host, revealing a multitude of pale-blue splotches.

TECH 2: Jesus fucking Christ. Rich people are animals.

TECH 1 hooks his black light to the gib attached to his cart. It swings gently back and forth.

TECH 1: Oh, dude, this is, like, low-level fuckery. Believe me. I’ve seen them come down here, like, absolutely freaking glazed.

TECH 1 picks up a wire brush and begins scrubbing his host.

TECH 2: Hope that dude was drinking water because I don’t know if he had anything left after that. Guy was probably shooting chalk dust. Guest probably lost 15 pounds up in there, just in his balls.

TECH 1: Nah. I’m telling you. This is nothing.

TECH 2: Man. You ever … you know?

TECH 2 makes a fist and punches the air twice.

TECH 1: What, employee discount? Nah. I mean, when I started I was like “Oh yeah! WESTWORLD!” Then, once you see … how the sausage is literally made? Nuh-uh. After my first day down here, never looked at it the same. Those hedge-fund motherfuckers would think twice if they knew what we knew.

TECH 2: No, they wouldn’t.

TECH 1 puts down his wire brush. His vibe suddenly becomes conspiratorial.

TECH 1: You know where the hosts go first? Before they come down here? To payload removal. Sublevel 1. You see, right in here …

TECH 1 points at spot on his host’s lower abdomen.

… and here …

TECH 1 points to a spot just above the sternum.

TECH 1: There’s these, like, bladder devices. They capture all a guest’s, uh, material, if you get what I’m saying. Those get removed, and the contents get analyzed. I like my job just fine, but they can’t have my DNA, hell no.

TECH 2: Damn … What do they do with —

TECH 1: I don’t know. But it can’t be good. And you didn’t hear that from me. We’re not supposed to know that.

Disclosure: HBO is an initial investor in The Ringer.