#tuesday ic

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 3] that’s my story and i’m stickin’ to it

Tuesday did not know how it was that they found themselves inside the foyer of the bowling alley, the evening after Shepherd’s ceremonious death - yet, here they were.  Frustrated - by their situation, the total lack of action, Dot’s blasée attitude, the almost extinguished supply of cigarettes - they’d wandered the streets of the city for a short while, looking for distraction, and it was here that they’d chosen to stop.  But Tuesday was not a bowler.  They had, to their knowledge, never before bowled... and there was no one around to teach them.

Well, how hard could it be?

They gathered that, at the front desk, one was expected to exchange one’s shoes... so they abandoned their flip flops and padded barefoot into the alley’s inner sanctum.  This place was, they guessed, more luxurious than was standard, but that was hardly out of place aboard the Endless Expanse, a ship of near infinite luxury.  The marble was pleasantly cool against their feet as they passed the concessions area, making a beeline for one of the lanes.  It was a matter of a few taps on the touchscreen to enter their name: they glanced up to the monitor to see TUESDAY appear in a burst of CGI confetti, and let out a humourless snort.

Pins descended at the end of the lane, and they watched as a rank of identical bowling balls rolled into the rack, signalling the beginning of the game.  How heavy was a bowling ball, anyway?  Tuesday eyeballed the printed weights, selecting what looked like the heaviest; testing it in both hands, they estimated it was about seven kilograms.  Plenty heavy enough to do some serious damage, especially with a blow to the head.  Knowing Dot, that was the point.

They turned towards the lane, making as if to throw -

- then pinioned at the last second and swung the ball overheard, slamming it into the little screen.  It buckled, crumpling under the force of the blow, quite thoroughly destroyed - and Tuesday looked up, meeting eyes with the passenger who’d wandered in just in time to witness the whole thing.

They dropped the ball.  It hit the marble with a horrible thud.

“... hey.”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 2] god’s own drunk

Rough day, and a rougher night to follow, no doubt.

After brunch, they disappeared into their room and spent the afternoon smoking on the balcony.  They’d known - of course - that Dot was the enemy, no matter how helpful she tried to seem.  They hadn’t known exactly the lengths to which she would go... had gone.  Now that her hands too were bloodied, and the exact terms of the game made clear for the first time, it was necessary to rearrange some pieces of the puzzle.  Tuesday had no shortage of thinking to do.

A new day, however, brought with it a new floor of their gilded cage, and they were coaxed out by the promise of artistic wonders untold.  In truth, they were left a little disappointed - they’d been hoping for a library - but it wasn’t a total wash.  Certain things merited closer inspection.  Just... had to make some preparations first.

Twenty minutes later, they were riding the elevator down to deck three in a new shirt, two cocktail jugs hanging from one hand, a tray of glasses and appropriate garnish carefully balanced on the other.  Dragging a desk over from the studio corner, they hummed an old familiar tune to themself as they draped a mostly-clean tarp over it.  A little DIY and precise arrangement and... voila! Tuesday had never been invited to a fancy gallery event, but they had to imagine this is what one would look like.

Satisfied, they moved to harvest the fruits of their labour, when the sudden sound of footsteps on the hard floor alerted them to the approach of another passenger.  They glanced up, raising a hand in greeting, looking for all the world like a carefree tourist... albeit one who’d become quite lost on the way back to their cruise ship.

“Perfect timin’.” Tuesday grinned, wide. “Interest you in a drink, to accompany the art?  I know it’s a little early, but I’ve got a couple specials today.”  Seeming pleased with themself, they gestured to two little hand-fashioned placards neatly labeling the cocktails.  [Angel Face 🍸] read one; the other, [Vampiro 🌶️].

“Watch that second one,” They were already smiling at their own joke as they took a sip from the glass in their hand. 

“It’s got a bite!”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[prologue] boat drinks [open!]

... and that was that.

Without any further ado (or much of anything resembling a tour), their upbeat host vanished upstairs to the Captain’s Quarters, leaving the passengers of the Endless Expanse to their own devices.  Others quickly went their separate ways, riding down deep into the bowels of the ship, so they resolved to do the same and moved towards the elevator - then stopped.  As curious as they were about the condition of their luggage and the concept of claiming a room, this particular guest had a sudden thought.

When they’d boarded... that’d been a beach, right?

With a minuscule shrug, they turned on their heel and headed out on to the deck, shielding their eyes: it’d be noon pretty soon, and the sun was bright and high overhead.  Another beautiful day!  They couldn’t help but smile as they strolled past a pair of volleyball pits and down the steps to the fake beach.  Fake it may be, but to the passenger it was a welcome sight.  Kicking off their sandals without, it seemed, the slightest concern for where they landed, they rolled their pants legs up to the knee and splashed right into the water.  

“Ah... perfect.”  Nice and warm.  They wiggled their toes in the sand as they waded over to the bar.  Of all the pools to have on a boat, this was the best possible kind.  There was time for a drink, they reasoned, before getting down to business.  Vaulting effortlessly over the bar, they leaned down to select their drink, moving to pop it on the barside bottle opener on their way back up.  They were just raising the bottle to their lips when a figure at the far side of the pool caught their eye - a stranger, a fellow passenger.

Well, as good a time as any for introductions!  They raised the bottle high in a salute.

[♫♪]

“Aloha, friend!  Welcome to Margaritaville!  I'm...”  They paused, seeming to consider it for just a moment.  “I'm Tuesday.  Come and toast with me, to a good journey!”

[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’.”

[estatomartedi-blog]

[chapter 4] it’s my job

“Check, check - ”

Tuesday’s eyes shot open, and they lurched bolt upright, gasping.  A second later, the pain hit, and a yelp escaped them; another second, and there was the memory of the night before, almost as painful as the injury.  They had to fight the urge to curl up and go back to sleep... but Dot was still talking, and the room, they remembered, was ruined - the poor painting, they thought, staring mournfully up at the bullet-riddled canvas.

Well, might as well get up.  She’d be expecting them.

How long had they been out?  It couldn’t have been more than a few hours, but they’d slept deeply, and in spite of their aching ribs they felt better rested than they had in weeks.  Somebody’d left a glass of water by their bedside, and they made short work of it, offering up silent thanks.  They grabbed their few undamaged belongings and shoved them back into their suitcase - that, at least, was bulletproof - and with that, were off to the fifth floor!  They’d have to wash up later, but whatever.  Tuesday snorted a laugh: this way maybe they’d really look as bad as they felt!

The meeting was, to its credit, over quickly.  As usual, Dot was full of shit, but this ridiculous persona seemed a little easier to deal with than the cop had been (they still sort of suspected that whole schtick had been a dig).  Frowning first at the names on the door, then at the decor, they dumped their case in their shared room and scarpered.  It was too early in the morning to run into Judge just yet.

In their hurry to escape the open, Tuesday ducked through the first door they saw, stopping short to blink a few times as the light quality shifted drastically.  Far from the seventies nightmare the hallway evoked, the sushi bar was actually fairly modern and welcoming.  Before they knew their feet were moving, they’d crossed the floor and lowered themselves, wincing, into a seat.  The robot behind the counter, though its arms were moving industriously, stared.  Tuesday stared back.  Kind of creepy, to give it a face if it was just gonna... look at you.

Then, as if by telepathy, the creature sprang to life, its blank face lighting up with a grin.  “Welcome!  What can I get started for you?”

They leapt about four feet in the air, taken - for once - utterly by surprise.  Their knee collided with the table beneath them painfully, and in leaning over to try to grab it they accidentally put their bones all out of joint again.  Wheezing, Tuesday - six foot four, card-carrying assassin and one-time detective of the NYPD - could do nothing but sprawl across the table, the wind completely gone from them.  The bottle of soy sauce fell over and rolled in a sad circle.  The robot chef only blinked, leaning forwards.

“Um... are you quite alright?”