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.