━ chekhov's gun ━

ariel don't worry about the dogs neighbour will look after them affiliated with the endless expanse. side art by ezri, icons by jess!

[ssendlessexpanse]

We wanted to take a moment to thank everyone that participated and followed Echo Express and Endless Expanse. Without all of you, none of this would have evolved into what the series has become today and we are so grateful. The friendships formed, the stories we were able to tell, and the fun we have all had is really something we hold dear and hope you all do as well. This truly couldn’t have happened without each and every one of you. We love you guys.

So, to all of the EE/X family, we would like to say again…

THANK YOU FOR PLAYING!

[estatomartedi-blog]

I just realized Tuesday comes from the phrase "but for me, it was tuesday" and I can't believe how stupid I am.

( oh my god, don’t feel stupid!! it’s not honestly a joke i expected many people to get, so i am very pleased to tell you you’re absolutely right: it is indeed a reference to the trope! that’s why the blog is called estato martedi, too, which is ‘it was tuesday’ in Italian :^) )

[ssendlessexpanse]

Just Another Hit

The lights of the club swirled around the dance floor as Lumi spun in alone in the center. Music was just the thing she needed to shake these feelings away. She had been angry with so many other passengers that she just needed a get away. An outlet for all of these pent up feelings. The club was the only place. 

She laughed to herself as she let everything out where no one was watching. She felt like her usual self. Not a care in the world. She had no attachments. It was only her and the music.

Then… the perfect song. Lumi’s face lit up as she heard it’s familiar tune.

[ x ]

She had to get to the deck. A little “moonlight” would make this moment perfect. She spun and twirled to the violins as she exited the club, carrying the song along with her in her mind. She slow danced with herself down the hallways of Dionysus’ Garden.

“Fly me to the moon.. and let me play among the stars~”

Lumi danced up the stairs, providing her own special rendition of the song in her mind. As she approached the top of the steps, she couldn’t shake a strange feeling of uneasiness. 

“Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more~”

Lumi came out into the ruined foyer of the deck, taking a moment to feel the climax of the song before throwing open the doors and walking out on to the deck.

“In other words please be true–”

Keep reading

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

They could have stopped at any time.

Cut the story short, yell down at the android operating the wheel to hurry it along, get the thing moving; leave the story half-finished at the part that still made them seem sympathetic, the difficult childhood, the troubled youth. The part that came before the choice to be… this. 

And yet, they didn’t. Sensibly enough, she supposed; they’d shown no shame over their job since the secret came to light – certainly not since they’d told her. They kept going – how they got into the business of killing for hire. Of fleeing to America, to the warm sunshine of the West coast instead of the winds of the East, as she had. Of trying to leave – and of failing. The same person who had a house on the beach, dogs, neighbours, who’d spent their first day on a cruise where they came to kill a man drinking cocktails in the pool, going out with a rifle and ending lives for pay.  

They could have stopped at any time.

“…Maybe.” she conceded, quieter than she meant. “But, I am thinking… you stopped before. You could have stopped once again, yes? So… what is keeping you?” 

“…Is a genuine question, you must understand. Was it because of the money? Or… was life too– boring, without doing this?” If she had been forced to do something else instead of following her passion – she would have hated it, too. Would have done anything to find an opportunity to go back. And the relish Tuesday had taken in breaking Nobody’s arm–

“You do not have to answer,” she clarified, turning to look out the window at the carnival beyond, feeling their eyes on her even as hers left, “Only… you are cruel.”

Blunt and quiet, ringing in the brief pause that followed.

“But,” after that, glancing back, almost wary,, “–you can be kind. You have been, to me, before. And to your dogs. People are like this, but is not usually so… easily seen.”

The carriage creaked beneath them; her fingers twisted and untwisted the wedding ring on her finger, back and forth. 

“…Perhaps I am just not meant to understand you.” she concluded, in a tone that sounded a little too close to defeat for her own comfort. 

What is keeping you? 

They’d often wondered that themself.  Tuesday was pretty sure that, whatever their reasons for doing what they did, they weren’t rooted in active malice.  Before, they’d told others that they didn’t particularly enjoy killing, and meant it.  It was more that taking a life just didn’t seem as terrible to them, as it did to other people.  However, unlike many other nasty occupations, it was a service very few people could provide - and so, if Tuesday did a good job of it, there was steady, lucrative employment in it.

That was really it.  They didn’t think they were doing the world a favour.  They weren’t a serial killer (at least, not in the traditional sense), searching for that thrill that nothing else could capture.  They were just... a person who happened to be very good at something people found abhorrent, and there was satisfaction in a job well done.

Somehow, they didn’t think Nightingale would like that answer, and so they chose to stay silent - she’d given them the option, after all.  She wasn’t wrong: objectively speaking, they knew they were not a good person... but then, objectively speaking, Tuesday suspected not many people were.  Of course, she had a handle on this question of wider human morality too, and that much they’d expected.  What they hadn’t expected was what she said next.

They sat, hands hanging uselessly in their lap, unsure how to respond.

“I think... um, you’re actually the first person who's ever called me kind.” They could feel something wet in the corner of one of their eyes.  Tuesday reached up to wipe it away, frowning as they rubbed their fingers together.  That... didn’t make any se - 

With a sharp juddering, the wheel suddenly began to turn again, slowly bringing the two of them down the other side.  There was more they’d meant to say, but the moment had passed; the words were gone now, left at the apex.  Tuesday stared at Nightingale, at the reflection of the lights below as they grew closer.  They blinked their eyes dry, and swallowed.

Well... this was okay too.

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

They told it third-person.

It could have been a stylistic choice; it could have been an attempt to put distance between them. To start the story off blank and fresh, divorced from the assassin that was sitting across from her. Because at the start, after all, there had been no assassin; there had only been a child.

A child that Nightingale couldn’t help parallelling to her own experience. Given up by a mother forced to choose between work and child, not having the opportunity, the luxury for both, as she had. Forty four. When they had been sent away by their grandparents, she had been ten, sat in her father’s office, having the magic of numbers gently explained to her by his warm, loving voice. 

When they were sixteen, seventeen, they were still being shunted onward and onward while she was being offered passage to America, the opportunity of a lifetime. When they were nineteen, they were taking lives in the home they’d found for themself, and she was getting married to secure her own.

The longer they went on, the more uneasy she felt. The sharpened corners of Tuesday rounded out, took on more coherent shape in the scars they showed her when they pulled their shirt aside; the sharp intake of breath didn’t feel like her own.

“…I will– save them for the end,” she said, after a moment of pause, still wrapping her head around the past they were weaving for her, “–but I am with you, yes. Please, continue.”

Were they getting through to her?  Tuesday thought... maybe so.  Why she believed them, after all the lies they’d told just to get here, they really weren’t sure - but to have an audience, someone who was actually listening to them when the walls came down and the liar finally decided to tell the truth... they didn’t know how to describe the feeling.  Vulnerable was close.  It was too soon to say whether that was a good thing or not.

They ran their tongue over their dry lips, squeezing the water bottle.

“For a while,” they continued, a little croak in their voice that they quickly coughed out.  “For a while, I thought I was dead meat.  It was pretty close, actually: I was lucky to pull through.  The army didn’t want me back, though, not in the condition I was in.  They gave me a severance package an’ all, but, uh... I was pretty adrift.  Didn’t have anywhere to go, or much use of my arm at the time.  So I fell in with the mafiya.” 

Glancing up, as if they could sense her judgement, Tuesday shrugged.  “It wasn’t like I had a lot of skills, y’know?  Killin’ was about it, but... I was good at it.  People don’t much like that idea, but it’s true, I’m not about to sell myself short.  Ah, it was okay.  They thought I was so dumb - big dumb foreigner, all muscle and no brain.  But I was there for years, and it just got... boring.  I tried pickin’ up some hits for the Kremlin, but that was pretty dull work too, and really badly paid.  I was just sick of Russia, wanted a new start.  I, uh.”  They paused, looking her in the eye with a wry smile.  “had t’go where it's warm.”

Leaning back, they crossed one ankle over the other.  “I waited a while, got my papers in order so when the opportunity came up I’d be ready.  Wasn’t waitin’ too long: there was an election comin’ up, and they sent me to take care of some politician they didn’t like.  Soon as the plane touched down, I just vanished... which, by the way, is also a lot easier than you’d suspect, especially somewhere like the States.  I just wandered around for a bit, ‘til I was sure they weren’t sendin’ anyone after me.  Ended up puttin’ down roots in California, near the beach.  Got a job, adopted a coupla dogs...”

Just for a moment, they seemed distracted by the thought, looking out over the carnival like - if they could just see far enough - they’d be able to see that home again.

“Yeah.  It was good.  I tried to become a new person, and it worked for... a while.  But... I dunno.  I guess it’s just not that easy to change?  Was only a couple years before I was back at it, tradin’ money for lives - over the web, this time.  Gettin’ hold of a rifle was exactly as easy as you’d think.”  Was that a joke?  They didn’t smile: wasn’t exactly a funny one.  “And hey, you know what’s amazin’?  Turns out, it actually doesn’t matter where you go: somebody always wants somebody dead, an’ they’re always willing to pay.”

They rubbed at their eye, looking a little lost, now that it all was said and done.

“I’ve got no explanations for myself.  Couldn’t tell you why I do it.  It’s just... my trade, my skill, the only one I ever had a chance to hone.  It pays really well, too, considerin’ you don’t even need a high school education t’do it.  It’d be simple to blame it all on my circumstances, but that’d just be disingenuous.” 

“Guess I just took the easy way out.  That’s a pretty in-character answer, right?”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

Ah, she’d known they wouldn’t like that.

Nightingale had expected to see it in their face, at least, their expression, and true enough, there it was. But the flavour of their discontent was… different to what she’d expected. Confusion, and… was that disappointment? 

It was. I really thought we understood each other, they said, like that was anything that could remotely make sense; she came the closest to hitting them, then, to launching herself across the car and gripping them by their  collar and hissing, spitting that she was nothing like them. 

 Still, she wasn’t actually expecting them to follow through; the disappointment, she thought, was where it would end, with them shutting that door in her face, too. But then the carriage slowed – stopped, and they stopped, too. Hesitated. Whatever was coming loose in them, shaken loose by everything – Nightingale watched it unfasten in front of her, and fall away.

Well–  never look a gift horse in the mouth.

“…If you would like to.” 

“No-one is knowing how long we will be stuck up here. And for all the faults you are having– well, you are never dull.”

“–If not because it is fair – then because I am curious, yes? I have been wondering why since you told me first, after all.”

You are never dull.

They couldn’t help it: Tuesday cracked a smile at that one.  If they had a penny for every time someone’d told them that, they would now have one entire penny.  It was rough, in its own way, having to constantly project a facade of normalcy - a persona that was more palatable for ordinary people - but then, what were they supposed to tell their neighbours?  Their co-workers?  Even a hitman needed people to talk to.

So Tuesday acceded.  Curiosity was an acceptable reason to tell a tale they’d never told before - one they might never get the chance to tell again.  They took a deep breath... and began.

“Would’ve been... comin’ up on forty-four years ago, now.  A woman, a spy for the Americans in the Cold War, had a baby, and pretty quickly realised she couldn’t look after it and keep her job.  So, she abandoned it into the care of its grandparents, down near the French-Italian border.  The kid lived there ‘til they were eight, but they were... a handful, and a born troublemaker, so eventually they were fobbed off on an uncle, further north.  He did not care much for the child either, and passed them on to another, more distant relative in England... and so on.  This went on for... about a decade, gettin’ shuffled across countries and through new schools.  It did nothin’ to help the kid’s aggressive behaviour.  If anythin’, they got worse.”

Tuesday worried the scab on their lip with their teeth, sheer force of will the only thing stopping their clasped hands from agitating in other ways.  “They were a bad kid, for sure.  Probably born that way.  But... their family was not kind.  They knew they were a burden, because they were often told so.  Their cousins would call them every name under the sun, but mostly ‘bastard’... ‘Russkie’, et cetera.  They...”  They reached up to scratch at the back of their neck, avoiding her eyes. “did not really understand what that meant until they were quite a bit older.”

Pausing, they ran a hand through their fringe and let out a breath, a little shuddering.  It was a long moment before they were ready to continue.  “The kid became an adult, at least in name, and they ran off to the former Soviet Union and joined the army.  If one half of their blood didn’t fit them, they reasoned, maybe the other would.  They didn’t speak a word of Russian, but their commanding officers were not particularly bothered by this.  They learned how to shoot a gun, and later a rifle.  The kid discovered a couple of things, actually: first of all, that there were people in the world who didn’t care where you came from as long as you could do your job.  They’d ascribe you value based on what you did, not who you were.  The other thing...”  Looking her in the eyes, they smiled.  In a normal context, it might have seemed sad; in this one, it was almost frightening.

“Killin’ is... a lot easier than people think.”

They shrugged, glancing off to the side.  “The kid was happy.  As happy as they’d ever been.  Then they, uh...”  Reaching up to the collar of their shirt, they unpopped a couple of buttons and pulled it down over their shoulder, revealing the mottled, burnt skin of their scars.  “... got blown up.”

Tuesday let her look for a moment, before putting the wounds away again.  They swallowed, then took a pull of the water to ease their dry throat.  Too much talking.  “You followin’ so far?  Any questions?”

[yumigahara-blog]

act VII. ~ Sweet Pea

[estatomartedi-blog]

yumigahara:

Daisy’s eyes twinkle the moment Tuesday signs smoothly and fluently, and she’s almost forgotten her grudge and her question.

You can sign? her hands move excitedly, Why did you not tell me before? She stops herself from getting overeager, remembering to nod at Tuesday’s request. She hands them a stick of dango, signing, you can ask for more if you want.

She points at their lips again and signs, Are you okay? Does it hurt? Sounds like a lot happened.

And then, Daisy gives a small, silent cough, as if to calm herself down.What were you going to say? she asks as Tuesday eats the snack.

They took the snack gratefully, quickly signing a thanks as they tucked the stick away in their shirt pocket.  This was the major downside when it came to sign language, they thought: most of the time, you sort of needed both hands at once.

I did tell you! Tuesday protested, as they lead her away from the shooting gallery to a nearby bench.  They promptly parked themselves there, folding one leg over the other and popping the dango into their mouth.  It was sweeter than they would’ve preferred, but pleasantly chewy.  Pretty good!  When we first met, remember?  I said I was rusty, which in my defence was not entirely a lie - I’m just not quite as rusty as I lead you to believe.  This, on the other hand, was an upside: eating and talking simultaneously.

Jokes aside, they continued, signing quickly and smoothly.  ASL was one of the languages they’d picked up as a vanity project, back when they first moved to the states, and not one they’d ever got much use out of... but Tuesday had the gift of tongues, in a manner of speaking, and you never forget how to ride a bike. I’d rather you heard this from me than someone else.  Swallowing the dango, they barely paused, as if what they were about to say was completely pedestrian.

I haven’t been truthful with all of you.  I was never a cop.  In fact, I’m a professional killer for hire - have been for years.  The one who tried to shoot Shepherd, back at the very beginning, was me.  They paused, popping the joints in their fingers quickly to loosen them up.  I’d entirely forgotten you weren’t there.  You must’ve been the only one who ended up not finding out.

Anyway, don’t worry about the lip.  It hurt last night, but it’s fine now.  Gently, they pressed down on the scab with one tooth, and winced.  Yeah, it would heal fine.  Tuesday smiled, at least having the grace to pretend to be apologetic, and popped a second sweet in their mouth.

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] it’s my job

[estatomartedi-blog]

luminescentlumi:

“That’s… rather observant of you. It seems putting yourself in the line of fire paid off, hm~? Good work, Tuesday~”

Honestly, Lumi hadn’t considered how deep underwater the boat went. It was an interesting point. How many secrets was Dot hiding? Lumi could feel that itch to chase the mystery of the Endless Expanse yet again, but held herself back. She would get to the bottom of it eventually, but the well being of the others mattered more.

Ugh, what was happening to her?

“We’ll have to take incredibly careful steps in pursuing the truth. Don’t want another incident.”

She giggled to herself. She shouldn’t make light of Tuesday’s injury, but… Well, what did they think was going to happen going against Dot? Still, they needed to work together to make sure something like that didn’t happen again. So, until they had a more solid plan… Mindless speculation would have to do!

“Imagine if it is one of us! Who do you think it could be? It certainly spices things up doesn’t it? What if someone before didn’t actually die?! Aha! The possibilities are endless!”

Tuesday didn’t really care what other people though - never had, probably never would.  So... why did the back of their neck heat up when Lumi praised them?  They shook their head, dismissing her compliments as if to say I didn’t do it for you.

“She didn’t hurt me badly, y’know.  Takes more than that to do me in.”  They conveniently did not mention the part where Dot had spared them because she hadn’t wanted them too damaged to compete.  No one needed to know that.

Her next question threw them for a loop, though, just a little.  Lumi seemed excited by the prospect of the ringleader walking among them; Tuesday had to admit they just found the concept a little depressing.  They shrugged, showing a general lack of interest in the solution.

“Can’t say I’ve thought about it an enormous amount, though,”  They picked at the sushi in front of them, suddenly having lost their appetite.  “outside of considering what I’ll do to them when I catch them.  It really could be anybody.”  

Tuesday locked eyes with Lumi.  “You?”  They blinked a few times, unflinching, then looked away.  “Could be.  Me?  Equally possible.  What if I set this all up and then gave myself false memories to make me think I was someone else?  That’s the sort of thing that happens in stories like this, right?  Or...”  They threaded their fingers through their fringe, and smiled.

“Maybe I’m just a much better liar than you all took me for?”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

The name didn’t get the reaction she’d been expecting; in fact, at first, it seemed like they’d blanked her completely. Which… wasn’t right, didn’t fit; not until they tuned back in, realized she’d been addressing them, and started speaking.

And, matter-of-factly as always, I gave Bandit a fake name, with an exaggerated well what can you do frown, and–

…She shouldn’t have been surprised. Shouldn’t, wasn’t, really, but– she’d been operating on the assumption, since yesterday, that their little show of force had been born of her knowing that name. Of wanting a guarantee it wouldn’t pass her lips, once (if) they got out. But– no. Nothing so sensible. 

Somehow, that made it worse, and the anger leaked through into her expression for a moment, her grip on her own hands in her lap going white-knuckle, but– well, fine. Fine, okay. They were paranoid. They needed control. I have to keep myself safe. Fine. 

“…Perfectly.” she said, voice tighter than she meant it, lower, irrational anger constrained; even hung over, even in the confines of a ferris wheel car, she didn’t fancy her odds against them if she lost her temper. “I do not know how you expected me to… endanger you with nothing but a fake name, but your work is, ah… high risk. I truly hope it makes you feel better.”

“…But seeing as it is not fair, and now will never be fair, then perhaps you will clear things up, for me? Knowing who holds my life in their hands is small comfort; you can at least afford this, yes?” Childish, maybe, ‘now you’ – a spite-curiosity, the desire to claw even a little something back. The wheel came to a slow stop, with their car at the very top, yawning silence below and between them as she waited for their response.

Hm.  She didn’t seem happy.  Tuesday’s brow furrowed, as if confused.  This was why honesty was overrated, frankly: people never really wanted the truth.  As much as they might claim they did, they much preferred comfortable, easy lies.  Lies that meant they wouldn’t have to think about anything too difficult.  They just managed to avoid rolling their eyes, but couldn’t hide their expression - they’d really thought Nightingale was better than that.

As a result of all this, they could do nothing but scoff at her suggestion, pressing their mouth into their hand as they looked out the window.  Tuesday was not entirely accustomed to feeling this... disappointed.  They didn’t often put their faith in people, then the one time they dared to, she was letting them down?  They wondered if jumping out the window would be preferable to continuing this conversation; glanced down; decided against it.

“That was a joke, right?  You don’t seriously think I’m going to tell you just because of some... bizarre notion of fairness?”  Their eyes flicked back to meet hers, their face unreadable.  “... I really thought we understood each other, Nightingale.  I don’t know what to - ”

The wheel ground to a halt slowly, stranding the two of them at the very apex of the rotation.  Tuesday couldn’t not sigh.  The robot running this ride really had a hell of a sense of humour.

“Well... looks like we might be stuck up here for a while.”  They drummed their fingers on the windowframe, ran their tongue over their teeth.  “I - ”  Was this smart?  Would they regret this?  It really did depend on whether they lived, or died here.

Tuesday made their decision.

“If you want... I could tell you a story.  To pass the time.”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

It would be lying to herself to pretend it wasn’t a relief to hear that, truth or lie. Tuesday’d known exactly what effect giving up that knowledge would have on Nightingale, clearly, and that twisted like a bad taste in her throat. But even if it was a cold comfort – it was a kind of comfort, all the same.

“This is good to know.” she said, folding her hands in her lap, crossing one leg over the other. “You would not have problems hurting me, of course, but– I knew this when I told you.” 

The wheel spun, taking them higher until the noises of the android stall attendants and the other passengers milling around faded to a mumble. 

“…I suppose… that I should have been expecting this sooner. Of course you would be wanting to… ah, how do you say… even the odds?”

“…Am I wrong about this, Charlie?” A name foreign and strange on her lips; it felt too childish for them, somehow, for the human slumped in the chair opposite her that had who knew how much red in their ledger. “It is fair now, yes?”

Nightingale... she was a smart woman, and Tuesday thanked god for that.  They nodded along as she spoke, staring out the window: they’d expected she’d pick up on the threat underneath the assurance easily enough, and sure enough she didn’t relax, but at least it didn’t make her angry.  What would be the point of dragging other people into this?  As long as she didn’t tell, everything would be fine.  If she did, and what exactly they were going to do about Nobody...

Well, it was a bridge they’d have to cross when they came to it.

It took several seconds for them to realise she’d finished talking.  They glanced up with a hm?, mentally rewinding the last couple of sentences, and almost cringed when they realised she’d used that name to address them.  Bandit’s big mouth was going to get him killed one day.  It was amazing he’d survived that long.

“Eugh... look, I’m sorry - this isn’t gonna help my case, I know - but...”  They ran their tongue over their split lip, worrying the scab, unable to keep their eyes off the world below them.  So small now, and just the two of them up here, alone.  It was alright to tell Nightingale, wasn’t it?

“I didn’t... expect that he’d tell everyone, alright?  I gave Bandit a fake name.”  They met eyes with her, grimacing as if to say that’s just how it is.  “You know.  To trick him into trustin’ me.  Think it worked a little... too well, if I’m honest.”

“So... no, it’s not fair, and we’re not even.  I just... needed somethin’ to hold over you.  I have to keep myself safe.”  Tuesday paused, looking her hard in the eye.  “I think you understand that, right?”

[yumigahara-blog]

act VII. ~ Sweet Pea

[estatomartedi-blog]

yumigahara:

Daisy narrows her eyes upon noticing that it’s Tuesday she ran into. It’s all on herself, though; she could hardly blame Tuesday for trying to find the culprit and succeeding… it’s just that the culprit was Fantasma.

Daisy frowns and looks to the targets Tuesday had been so focused on shooting, the tiny, smug Dots. Then she looks back to Tuesday.

She tilts her head, mouthing the word, murderer?  And then, she almost seems to shrug it off as she continues eating through the rest of the candy apple.

She patiently waits for Tuesday to face her direction while watching them do their thing. Admittedly, Daisy’s tempted to try. When Tuesday faces her, Daisy points with the empty stick at their broken lips, expression curious and asking what happened there.

The question that appears on Daisy’s phone is a bit more serious, though: Are you a murderer?

Ping.  That’s the last one: another hundred-percent-accuracy round.  One would think by now they’d be getting bored of it, but quite the contrary - Tuesday happily would have stood there and shot Dots all day.  Still... They dropped the rifle from their shoulder, holding it against their chest as the targets slowly reset, and turned to face their companion.  

“What, this?”  Mirroring her own action, they pointed at their lip.  It was still a little tender and swollen, and it would take a while for the split to heal, but it didn’t hurt so badly any more.  “It’s nothin’.  I did somethin’ stupid and I got punished for it.”  Tuesday paused, struggling to remember.  “Actually, I think the punishment came first?  ... couldn’t tell you.”  

Glancing down, they noted the mountain of snacks in her arms with a raised eyebrow.  Tuesday opened their mouth to say something, but the words on her phone screen stopped them short.

Are you a murderer?

They blinked, dumbly.  Well, yeah, they wanted to say, where have you been?  Then they remembered: at the theatre, Daisy, damaged by the back-to-back deaths of Fairy and Fantasma, had parted from the rest of the group early.  She’d missed the boat... pardon the metaphor.

Reaching up to scratch the back of their head, Tuesday sighed, and set down the rifle on the stand.  They pointed to the dango briefly, before signing fluently, all of the performed rust from before sloughing off them:

Give me some of those dumplings, and then maybe we’ll talk.

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

[estatomartedi-blog]

teorievesmiru:

It was disquieting to realize that the only surprise about Pumpkin’s death was that it wasn’t accompanied by a bell.

Somewhere in her – after everything – Nightingale had been expecting her to die. She didn’t realize that, not really, not until she went hurtling down the shaft with that beatific smile, not until the elevator went speeding down after her, and realized  that there was no surprise. Just a quiet, resigned sadness. At least it was quick, thought haphazardly, throwaway, before she caught herself. At least it wasn’t painful. Familiar, echoing thoughts.

There had been– quite enough pain to last a lifetime, over the past few weeks. Nobody’s arm was the latest in a series of it; she’d done her best to help him with it, but– she was a doctor of physics, not of medicine, and he was more help to himself in the end than Nightingale was; more help than she’d been to him the whole time. 

So, the last thing she felt like doing was carnival games. The only consolation was that Tuesday seemed like they liked it even less than she did. 

The scar on their lip had begun to scab over, and the shake and stumble in their ordinarily-composed walk now was accentuated by a pallor unusual for them, bloodshot eyes, an aura of misery.Maybe that was why she followed them to the ferris wheel, initially; to feel a little better, by comparison. Maybe she just wanted to talk to them in the cold light of day. Either way, she reached them – puking their guts up out of the side of the car while she watched, waited until they noticed her.

With a brief glance over her shoulder, she ascended the rest of the steps and got into the car opposite them, sitting down and shutting the door behind her.

“…Yes, well… we both are full of surprises lately.” she said, with a hollow smile, fishing around in her pocket for a handkerchief, offering it to Tuesday, waiting for them to take it as the wheel started to spin.. “Do you feel better, now? After…” – a pause, pointed – getting everything out of the system?”  Maybe it was just her questioning, scientist’s mind. The inability to put them together, the need for something rational, some kind of reason in the wake of the most senseless death yet. For all Tuesday could do, they couldn’t surprise her any longer. 

What did they think Nightingale would do, realistically?  What had they expected?  To have the door slammed shut in their face?  That she’d turn the wheel on just long enough for their car to reach the apex and then switch it off again, and leave them up there to rot?  This hadn’t even crossed their mind - they could only watch in surprise as she seated herself opposite and the car door swung shut.  The attendant seemed to take the arrival of a second passenger as some kind of unwritten cue and, gradually, the wheel began to move, turning in a slow clockwise circle.

And so they found themselves trapped in a very small space with a woman who, just last night, they’d blackmailed and threatened into revealing what must be the most holy of secrets, here on the Endless Expanse.

“Right.”  They swallowed again, taking the handkerchief she offered with a grateful nod.  As they dabbed at their mouth they winced: their lip, still a little swollen, ached.  It was almost funny, comparatively speaking.  Satisfied they’d got the worst of it, Tuesday gave the handkerchief a quick wash with some of the water from their bottle, wringing it out before hanging it over the open window of the car, to dry.  “Thanks... thank you.”

Heavy silence hung over them then.  How did you answer a question like that?  They stared out the window at the painted sky, and down at the stalls growing ever further away.

“I don’t...”  Their hands folded over the bottle in their lap, over and over again, crossing and uncrossing.  Tuesday sighed and, with great effort, tried to meet her eye.  

“I won’t hurt your daughter.  You understand that, right?  She’s innocent in all this, she doesn’t know anythin’.  You don’t need to worry about that.”

[yumigahara-blog]

act VII. ~ Sweet Pea

[estatomartedi-blog]

yumigahara:

Pumpkin’s gone. Daisy never got to talk to her much at all in the end, but she could still feel the loss poking at the hole in her heart. She did quite like her, after all. It’s almost a familiar feeling now, kind of like Blythe. 

And of course, after that event, Dot seems to expect them to have some time, or even mood, for festivities.

Daisy certainly isn’t in the mood, but she finds herself in Dot’s makeshift carnival anyway. She’s searching for distractions, after all. What’s better than a few games? Or the plethora of snacks?

What’s that girl doing? What is she planning? What’s the point behind this whole game? Questions that should have been asked since the beginning, but Daisy didn’t particularly care before.

Daisy ponders on all this as she somehow carries a number of snacks: three orders of dango, two sticks of cotton candy, and a candy apple that she’s munching on.

She’s deep in thought as she takes a small bite, although she’s wary enough to stop herself from running into someone at a stall. 

Her brows are still furrowed in concentration, enough that she’s forgotten to apologize, but she’s already tilting her head and wondering what they were doing. Is it a game?

When their nausea had subsided, and enough time had passed that the crowd round the entrance had broken up, Tuesday decided to make a break for it - if they stayed low and moved quickly, they might well manage to escape before anyone noticed.  They’d taken only a handful of steps, though, when a stand caught the corner of their eye and drew them in, as if mesmerised.  Was this... some kind of shooting gallery?  The little targets, each of them shaped like Dot in various poses and outfits, danced from side to side across the width of the stand.  They could almost hear her chorus of voices: you can’t hit me!

Well, that just wasn’t true.

Tuesday glanced from side to side, surreptitiously - no one was around.  Slowly, carefully, they lifted one of the rifles from the rack in front to their shoulder.  It was a bit too small for their liking, and laughably light to boot, but... they briskly took aim, squeezed the trigger, and a tiny metal ball bounced off one of the Dots with a satisfying ping.

They smiled.

That was where they still were, when she found them: lining up the crosshairs and taking the shot, knocking down the targets one by one by one.  When all of them were hit, they only had to wait a few seconds for them to correct themselves, and then they could start all over.  It wasn’t difficult work, but there was something so comforting and familiar about the feeling of it that when Daisy approached they were reluctant to stop.  So they didn’t, striking up conversation without even averting their eyes.

“Hey, Daisy.” Tuesday held their breath, pulled the trigger.  Ping.  “Nothin’ better to do than hang out with murderers, huh?  You wanna play too?”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] the wino has something to say [nightingale]

Tuesday never had hangovers.  Never.  

This was quite deliberate on their part, because they made a point of never drinking quite enough to end up drunk - when you lived a life like their’s, letting your guard down to that extent was tantamount to suicide.  So, when they’d awoken in a karaoke booth, with a blinding headache and a mouth that tasted like some creature had crawled into it and died, it didn’t take much to figure out that something had gone wrong.  Between long pulls from the bottle of water the attendant had so kindly provided, they peered at their bloodshot eyes in the mirrored surface of the TV.  What the hell happened?

Dot’s announcement startled them out of their fugue.  On a normal day her tone might have left them suspicious.  As it was they were too out of it to notice.  They stood slowly, creaking bones protesting, and found they had to force their feet to move - one in front of the other, one step at a time, they finally turned the corner to the foyer.

Nobody was there.  Well.  Everybody was there, but only one person’s arm was in a sling.  They almost approached, to ask - but then it clicked, and the night before came rushing back like the proverbial floodgates had broken, and entirely without meaning to Tuesday slumped against the wall, clutching the bottle so tightly that it crumpled.  

Idiot.  Fucking idiot.

They barely noticed the execution going on before their eyes.  Another one dead - so what?  The moment their hostess was done they broke from the group, speeding to the back of the room, desperate to escape scrutiny: the moment anyone else thought to enquire about his injury, they were done for.  Reaching the big wheel, Tuesday half-stepped half-fell into the nearest car - and promptly leaned over the far side, vomiting up the entire contents of their stomach.  They hung there, breathing heavily, for a few moments.  Pushed the heels of their hands into their eyes so hard they saw stars.

When they looked up to ask why the wheel wasn’t moving yet, they were cut short by a familiar figure on the steps.  Her name sprang, unbidden, to their lips; they bit it back.

“... Nightingale.  You’re the last - ”  They stopped, swallowing thickly to force down the nausea seizing them.  The water bottle crinkled and popped as they worried at it.  

“... second last person I expected to come lookin’.”

[teorievesmiru-blog]

[chapter 4] supercluster [nobody/tuesday]

[estatomartedi-blog]

nobodyheardyou:

teorievesmiru:

Leaving was never going to be an option. Nobody’s wrist was already broken (the twist-crunch echoing in her head, a bile-rising sound), and it was going to have been for nothing anyway; she couldn’t overpower Tuesday, didn’t have a hope of overpowering Tuesday. So, it was leave, or give them what they wanted: and of the two, the only one that had a good chance of making them stop was the second.

She couldn’t un-break Nobody’s wrist. But maybe she could stop them from breaking his arm. And even then– it was only a maybe. Still better than leaving Nobody to face it alone; than living with herself if she did that. 

But.

But, what they wanted wasn’t the details.

She watched as they lifted Nobody, all killer grace, the ease with which they made him a vulnerable hostage frightening, belying the strength required for the movement; as they talked like they were contemplating, thinking – frighteningly realistic, frighteningly performative.

And then, their offer.

Her name.

“A-ah…”

For a moment, her resolve wavered. If they knew her name, they would know where to find her. If they knew her name, they would know where to find Otillie. And knowing that would be the proverbial knife against her throat; if they got out alive, even if they never saw each other again – the threat would be there. A lurking, lingering pendulum.

That snap, that crunch, the whittling painful noise Nobody made, the wrench in her chest.

“…..If this is what you want.”

It felt foreign, when she formed it on her lips; she hadn’t used it in… what, three weeks? Nightingale, Nightingale, Nightingale. Slipping the name that she’d worn for most of her life back on felt like putting on an ill-fitting dress, one that no longer sat as it used to, that she’d changed too much for. But that was Tuesday’s price, and what she had to give. So, with little other choice, she gave it.

“–Do you remember now?” 

Her name thundered over his ears. Under any other circumstances he might have thought it an honour to hear it, but here it was a death sentence. Something hot rose from his gut. He shook his head.

Freedom came without warning. Nobody staggered—one step, then another, then two more—until he found his footing. He snatched up his searing arm with an unrestrained grimace. Beneath him, his legs threatened to give way.

He wanted nothing more than to whirl on Tuesday, to kick them in the knee so hard it bent backwards, but that—he knew with certainty—would earn him a busted knee of his own. That was when he realized with nauseating clarity that the hitman’s show of force had worked.

“Steep price, Tuesday,” he muttered. “Didn’t realize I was worth so much.”

Although he owed Nightingale a great debt, he could not summon the words to express it. He looked at his friend, who had perhaps just sacrificed more than just her own life, and offered a paling smile.

“Seems like this one’s taken a shine to our room,” he said, and nodded in Tuesday’s direction. He was faintly aware that he might be swaying on his feet. “You wanna get outta here?”

The words had barely left her lips when they snapped their fingers, the sound penetrating the weighty silence.  Tuesday looked downright delighted, like the cat who got the cream.  “That’s it!  My God.  Isn’t the human mind astonishin’?  Like a bear trap.  Twenty damn years and the second you said it, it was as if I read it yesterday!”  They laughed sheepishly as they released Nobody’s arm from their vice-like grip, taking a step back to put some easy distance between them as he scrambled towards Nightingale.

“There, now.  All sorted.  That was pretty easy, right?  I dunno about you guys, but I feel great!"  Spreading their arms, they dipped in an exaggerated curtsy.  “Thank you, Nightingale, for trustin’ me... and thank you, Nobody, for makin’ it all possible.”  When they righted themselves, their grin had turned into a deep, concerned frown.  “Please, though, don’t feel rushed!  If anything, I should go.  Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”

All that said, they still lingered, eyes moving back and forward between the two of them.  The resentment in Nightingale’s gaze; the anger in Nobody’s.  She stood firm, while he was shaking, but there was fear in both of them... yet, there was relief too.  This was familiar.  It was power, really - it gave you control, when you could manipulate people’s moods with just your presence, and it was control that they had dearly missed.

Their heart was pounding.  Their hands trembled.  They felt amazing.

Tuesday gave them both one last, shaky smile, and for that one moment seemed unguarded - genuine.  Then they turned on their heel and staggered out the door into the night, leaving it to close slowly behind them.  In like a lion, out like a lamb.

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] it’s my job

[estatomartedi-blog]

rebel-bandit:

Rolling his eyes, Bandit began tapping his foot on the ground. Tuesday was starting to become infuriating. What’s up with all this negativity? If Bandit’s being positive for once, did people automatically not want to be Bandit? It’s like the world is constantly trying to force disagreements upon him!

“I don’t understand,” he says while rising to his feet as well, “But you’re right, mostly. I’m always making mistakes, always carrying regrets.“

He shakes his head and climbs on top of his seat.

“I haven’t decided to live, I’ve decided to improve. There can be improvement… in death, I hope.” His voice was a little shaky at the end, but his expression was nothing short of determined. “But I’m gonna do what I can to help you. Which means, I can’t let you go until you start making sense by being positive! We’re friends, Tuesday!” By now, Bandit has now climbed on top of the table.

He turns around and then puts his arms up. “Tuesday, are you going to let me fall and crack my head open? I could die!”

Then, he leans backwards and off towards the floor.

If Bandit could be said to be tiring of Tuesday, then the same was more than true in reverse.  They’d been about ready to walk out on this conversation several volleys ago, but in the name of fair chances had restrained themself.  If he was going to tut at them, though, then they honestly felt their patience was justified in growing a little thin.

It was around the point he clambered up on to his table that they decided they were done.  Always proselytising, always trying to convert them, save them.  No one could ever just leave them be.  Hands buried deep in their pockets, they shrugged a fraction, already heading for the door.

“I’m sorry.  I don’t know what to say.  If it’s positivity you wanted, you really came lookin’ in the wrong - ”

Are you going to let me fall?

They paused mid-step - only for a moment, but a moment was enough.  When they glanced over their shoulder, he was already tipping: even if they’d wanted to, they would have to have been superhuman to catch him in time.  As it was, they just got to watch in slow-motion as Bandit hit the ground, his head making a dull thud as it collided with the hardwood floor.

Tuesday sighed.

They were back at his side in a handful of paces, crouching on the balls of their feet.  “Bandit.”  After just a few seconds of no response, they pulled off one of their gloves, and with a crack like a pistol shot slapped him hard round the face.

“Jesus.  If you’re gonna die and leave everyone blamin’ me for it, at least give me a chance to activate the watch first…”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] it’s my job

[estatomartedi-blog]

luminescentlumi:

“You didn’t have to mention one. I just figured those gears would be turning regardless.”

Lumi shrugged as she sat back into the booth, making herself comfortable. She would have to be vague with any thoughts she might have, but really… nothing came to mind. Dot was an unstoppable force.

“There are places aboard the Endless Expanse we have yet to see. Think there is a way to change that? Maybe if we ask nicely~? Perhaps your clip is there.”

There were places Dot obviously didn’t want them to be, and perhaps if they could see what was inside one of these places then they could get the upper hand on her. It was also time to start considering who was working along side her. This wasn’t a one robot operation, that’s for sure. Now the question was, could it be someone among them? Or perhaps someone they have yet to meet? Did Tuesday even share these curiosities?

“Ah! Tuesday, do you believe Dot orchestrated this entire ordeal on her own? It’s something I’m rolling around currently.”

She’d just assumed they would think of something?  Tuesday wasn’t sure whether to be flattered.  They licked salt off their lips as she leaned back, snapping their fingers as if to jog their memory.

“Right.  There’s more than one place, isn’t there?”  Chewing their lip, they looked off into space. “I was just thinkin’ about the captain’s quarters, but... there’s her room as well, plus all the areas she has locked off.  More to investigate than I was takin’ into account.”  With the corner of their mouth, they smiled fondly at her: Lumi really was sharp, and a useful person to have around. 

“I don’t think so, though - you’re most likely right.  Doesn’t it seem more feasible that she’d have an accomplice?  Probably one of our number, given how well they’ve been able to conceal themselves thus far.  Or else - ”  They paused.  There was one other thing - something they hadn’t mentioned to anybody.  Well, it wasn’t their fault.  No one else had ever showed the least bit of interest in getting to the bottom of all this.

“You know, all these floors, they haven’t exactly... been a surprise for me.”  Tuesday chewed on another handful of edamame, ordering their words carefully.  “Cut a long story short, the night I tried to kill Shepherd, Dot and I had a little altercation.  That’s what left my scars so tender, an’ that’s when I first started to supect she... wasn’t human.”  They winced a little at the memory.

“That’s not really the important part, though.  She took me into the elevator and typed somethin’ into the keypad, and then we went... down.  Down real far.  Further than I would’ve thought possible, to be honest.”

“The bowels of this ship... they run pretty deep.  There might be an underwater section, I don’t know.  But there’s every chance somebody - or multiple somebodies - are hidin’ down there, watchin’ us... and Dot’s just their avatar.”

The room had gone very quiet without their realising, and Tuesday laughed, scratching the back of their neck just for something to do.  “’Course, this is all just speculation.”