The Weekend

None of them are the same.

Not their names, not their methods, not their styles, not even their bloodthirst. Some do it for money. Some do it for fun. Some do it because they don't know how to live without it. Regardless, just for this moment, one thing and one thing only unites them; Mr. Saturday.

The mysterious benefactor comes to each and every one of them in their darkest hours, and offers them peace--if they'll kill a Mr. Sunday for him, he'll kill the people they despise the most. The people who've ruined their lives. All of them take on the job, and from then on their names are Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday, and they all wear masks to guard each others identities. They can either work together, or work against each other.

The twist?

They despise each other.

The Rules

Spoiler

1. If you'd like to see the more in-depth version of the backstory, see Mr. Sunday or Mr. Saturday's page. However, long story short; superpowers are available by the use of the Weekend drug, which will give your character a maximum of two powers. The traditional form of the drug gives the characters any random power, so if you have a specific power in mind you can do that, but the Weekend Corp. (owned by Mr. Saturday) provides specific power drugs such as: the Telepath (telepathy), the Lightning Rod (electric powers, includes digital technology manipulation), the Arsonist (fire), the Baptist (water), the Weatherman (weather related powers), the Strongman (super strength), and the Straitjacket (an illegal drug that may have been stolen by mobsters in order to torture their opponents. It supposedly gives the user hallucinations of something, but on the rare occasion grants some foresight into the future, which makes it easier to guess opponents fighting moves or plans. The most famous victim of this is Mr. Sunday, who was allegedly bitten by a chimp injected with this drug).

2. None of the participants can take off their masks or say their real names, even in their thoughts. Nothing that would tell readers anything about who they are directly. They might be able to hint at their real identities to the other participant, but only Mr. Saturday knows their real names (AKA please send me your real name and backstory through PM but write what code name you'd like in the character profile.)

3. Mr. Saturday is my character, and Mr. Sunday is a free domain character--I'll put up what he looks like and how he is, but other than that anyone can use him.

4. If your character's identities are found out by the people who hate them, the other character may kill your character if they choose to. In the case that this happens, you may either a) drop out of the storybook entirely with your arms flailing screaming EVERY TIME WHAT IS THIS GAME OF THRONES or b) Become a part of Mr. Sunday's posse, who aim to kill Mr. Saturday and his gang of hitmen. Those characters may be killed by the main cast, they may in turn also kill the main cast, they may speak with the main cast, etc.. But they'll still be the antagonists of the story.

5. The main point is to kill the infamous Mr. Sunday. Anything else is allowed, but that plot cannot be dropped. Mr. Saturday will make sure of that.

6. I reserve the right to do something rash if any of the characters decide to break any of these rules. I won't necessarily kill them, but Mr. Saturday will certainly try, and it might cause some unwanted drama. Please note.

OFFICIAL CHARACTER PROFILE (posted as character profile)

Spoiler

Code Name: Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday/Friday. Pick one!
Age: Whatever age, but let's just say a 13 year old hitgirl doesn't make much sense story wise. So the reasonable age is about 17-49.
Gender:
Mask: It can be animal shaped, or just an ordinary mask.
Special skills:
Personality: Be vague, no allusion to history, and it helps if its completely different from the Identity.

IDENTITY CHARACTER PROFILE (sent to Sacredlege's PM box)

Spoiler

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Appearance
Personality:
History:
Special skills:
Greatest Vice: This is the thing that will help others decide what the characters might've done to their own character.
Personal Tragedy: Not necessary, but if you have a specific tragedy in mind (ie parents killed) but have no face to blame, just stick this in.

Sunday, 1983
Kingston Institution

"Test Subject: Male Chimpanzee, 10-years of age. Tested Chemical: The Weekend, Version 34." Sunday read out the words from the clipboard, watching Saturday adjust the video camera from the corner of his eye. "Trial Twelve. Date: 22nd of October, 1983."

Sunday watched as the Asian man left the video camera to its tripod, giving him a thumbs-up. Sunday replied with a nod, picking up a syringe and a capped bottle from the silver platter beside him. "You're sure you've adjusted the dopamine levels in this, right?

"Don't doubt me, Samuel," his partner shot back, "I've decreased the amount of fluoxetine this time, Bobo here won't need a Ritalin shot when we're done with him."

Sunday tilted his head, smirking. "I'm not doubting you, Simon," he hummed, draining the bottle of its content, filling the syringe, "I'm only asking politely."

"Sure you are."

He chuckled. Bobo sat in his cage, clutching onto a bar with one hand, scratching his underarm with the other. His black eyes glittered under the fluorescent white light, blinking, gazing in curiosity. Sunday approached, syringe drawn a bit back, a gloved hand drawn forward. "Shh," he whispered, as the chimp started to panic, "It's okay, Bobo. Nothing's going to happen. You'll be perfectly fine."

Every word that came out of his mouth were sweet nothings. Sunday and Saturday knew it. Sunday suspected, irrationally, that Bobo knew it, too. He imagined Bobo, contained in his cramp cage, only barely able to observe the other chimps in his home be carried away by strange men in white coats, never to return. The chimp, he didn't know how many of his friends were released. He didn't know how many of his friends were buried. He didn't know how many of his friends were...changed.

There were other tragedies to think of.

Greater tragedies, Sunday reminded himself. He reached out, bringing the cage closer, soothing the already somewhat sedated chimp as he injected the substance. "It's alright," he kept whispering, more to himself than the chimp, "It's alright."

Saturday approached the two, his footsteps familiar, well-paced. He was wearing sneakers, that day. The quiet squeaks reminded Sunday of Oliver and his own white, paint-splattered sneakers, raucously sweeping against whatever surface it laid onto. It spoke of his character--no matter who you were or where you came from, Oliver had a way of drawing you into a conversation. He was a noisy man, and he fostered noise around him. It was unfitting, then, that he would die in such a slow, quiet way.

Oliver didn't deserve to die.

"What's happening?" Saturday touched his shoulder, lightly. "Sam? What's going on?"

Sunday blinked, twice, before finally gaining his composure back. "Sorry, sorry," he said, laughing. "Spaced out a bit."

Saturday's eyes furrowed. Concerned. "Let's get back to the experiment," he said, "We need to focus. You need to focus, especially."

He nodded. Saturday returned to his post, while Sunday turned back to Bobo, readying his clipboard. "Oh, and Samuel?" Saturday started, once again. "You can cry in a beer bottle later on. Not on the report sheets."

Sunday readjusted his glasses, snorting. "Shut up, Simon."

The two of them laughed for a little while, ignoring the topic at hand. Saturday's face clenched in a strange manner, a manner that reminded Sunday of eternal youth, of myths he'd heard from childhood and disproved in college medical courses. Impossibility became improbability, with a face like Saturday's--and if he were to open his mouth, improbability became near certainty.

Sunday prepared to say something, before being interrupted by Saturday's sudden change of expression. The Asian man's eyes widened, in wonder or fear Sunday couldn't tell, but his jaw dropped open, as well, and for a moment he almost seemed human. "Samuel," he said, running forward, "Sam!"

Sunday whipped his head over his shoulders, watching as Bobo screeched at his face. The chimp tore through metal bars, its black eyes now glowing a hazardous red, aimed like a snipers' laser light. And they were aimed, precisely, at Sunday.

He couldn't remember what happened next. Somewhere in between Bobo gaining the strength to tear through chrome bars and Sunday's cheeks hitting the frigid floor, there was the roughness of Saturday's grip on his shoulders, pushing him down. He recalled there was a scream, afterwards, and a fight between a human and a chimp, that could only end with a prepared tranquilizer plunged into thick fur.

The seat is made of velvet and mahogany, and the suit is brown corduroy. You aren't sure what the man attached to them is made of.

He stares at you for a little while, either out of interest or malice, you can't tell. He smiles like a father (if you've had any good memories of your father), and his bent back shows his age. He has a cane in his hand, some sort of dragon-like serpent twisting around it before resting its head at the top, content with glaring at you. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he says. "Ladies."

The ballroom is silent. Like the dragon on his cane, fear slithers down your spine.

"You all know why you're here," the man stands up, leaning on his cane, "And you all know what's expected of you. You mustn't, however, be afraid of what's to come--your target feeds on fear. He wants you to be afraid, for he is, as well. Fear is why he dared to kill hundreds. Fear is why he planted a bomb in one of my factories. He fears progress. He fears the future," the man smiles. "And he fears the Weekend."

The Beginning

"Mr. Sunday's most recent exploit, one of the Weekend's central factories in Nevada, has left an abundance of clues to where he currently is, and where he plans to hit next," Mr. Saturday pulls out a device that projects a hologram of the scene across the empty ballroom. Even though it is merely an illusion, you can almost feel the concrete and shattered glass beneath your shoes, and the black mass where the explosion ought to have taken place. The sky outside the broken windows is bleakly gray. "I suggest you start there to find clues. He's left many cryptic messages on the walls, as well, if it pleases you."

He points to a distant wall, and you see what looks like red paint (what you hope to be red paint) saying: He LIES. A series of other messages scatter about the walls-- There is No Future, Death to the Weekend, He Can Hear Your Thoughts, The Satellites Will Hunt Your Children, They're Redirecting a Meteor into Our Land, They'll Send You All to the Camps, They Lie, They Lie, He Lies--

Mr. Saturday coughs.

"I would've preferred if we didn't have to go this route," Saturday says, "But there's nothing I can do for him. Not if he's capable of this."

"I'd have you explore various of options in here. The city is a vast place," Saturday says. "I've plotted several options for you all to take, if you'd want to."

The Factory in Nevada

"We've been here, of course," Saturday says. "We don't need any further explanation. You may go there to investigate the messages on the walls or something else, however--perhaps you'll find something."

Mr Sunday's Asylum (Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital)

"You may think it startling that I'd sent a man like Sunday to a place as notorious as Bellevue, what with its' history of treatment towards the mentally ill," Saturday starts, "But I had taken great care that the ward didn't mistreat him or the other patients. I'd like to think my donations to the hospital was taken into account for that."

The scene changed into a picture of a somewhat renovated hospital, rotting red brick showing bits of its old self. It morphed once again into what looked like a whitewashed ward, the room they currently resided in with walls that cracked in suspiciously fist-sized holes, and metal beds that were thrown upside. "Of course, it didn't stop him from thinking me cruel," Saturday said. Something caught his eye, then, and he walked towards the tossed bed, staring at a picture that was stuffed beneath the mattress. Two young men, a college behind them, a bright future ahead of them. A bright future ahead for one of them, at least. He whispered, softly. "Perhaps I deserved this."

You cough.

Saturday nods, turning around. "Anyway. Our next destination."

Mr. Sunday's Old Dorm (Kingston Institution)

Mr. Saturday brings up a foreign room, then, smaller and more cramped than the ward. It's a college dorm--you can tell from the bunk bed, the pile of clothing in the corner, the instant noodles on the study desk, and the young man who laid on the bed with a hole between his eyes.

"Mr. Sunday and I used to live in this room, when we were still experimenting with the Weekend drug back in 1983," he said, "Of course, we left it, but after the bombing I discovered that he still had his secrets hiding about."

He pointed at the desk. It was observably pushed aside, if the clean square of the deteriorating wooden panels told you anything, and underneath was a holy in the wall. There seemed to be documents inside. "They seem to be chemical formulas," Saturday explained, "Some I recognize from the Weekend project, and others...I don't. However, there are other notes in there that I can't quite explain. I think it's up to you to decide if they're worth studying, or if it's better to go somewhere else."

Mr. Sunday's Old Laboratory (Kingston Institution)

The nostalgia associated with the laboratory is potent, even if only Mr. Saturday feels it. The laboratory is metallic and cold, with a couple of windows at the corner top of the room. It seems to be in a basement. "Kingston hasn't used this area for a while now, since they've upgraded to better facilities," Mr. Saturday said, "But someone's broken the lock, and it seems as if some of the chemical formulas from Sunday's dorm was being used."

You frown.

"Some are explosives," he said, "Others are less deadly, but without any clear purpose. I can't tell what's happening in the mind of a madman, but I know that Sunday is plotting something." He shook his head. "And I don't like it."

Things to Remember

"This is a private matter," Saturday explains as he shuts down the holograms. "Though the Weekend will supply all the power ups you need to aid you in this mission, we will not associate ourselves with you. Your contractor shall remain anonymous."

"You are allowed to split up into groups, but I encourage you to work together and cooperate," he continues. "There is strength in numbers. And besides--from the looks of it, Mr. Sunday isn't alone in his endeavor, either. You wouldn't want to meet with his patsies alone."

"Your masks have communication devices installed inside them. If you'd like to communicate with me or the other team members, you are free to do so. They do not, however, work in certain places, such as sewers or secluded areas in the countryside."

"It is preferable if you not tell your identities to anybody here. As much as we mean to work together, this is a one time thing only. I'd rather none of you grow a grudge for each other when we're done."

"And most importantly," he smiled. "All pathways may lead to something. There is no one right way to find Mr. Sunday--even I don't know where he is, currently. You are free to explore New York City as you wish, and the technologies associated with it might help you."

"Good luck."

Tuesday

Tuesday peered through the slits in her mask at her odd, new, and dramatic employer as he relayed the information of their following task to their group. It was preferable for him to have told her the location of their target - Mr. Sunday - but just like the rest of them, she would have to make do with the clues and leads provided for her. Looking to her left and her right, she looked over her fellow masked co-workers with a fair amount of suspicion and wonder. It was one thing for Mr. Saturday to want his matters to be kept secret because of the very nature of the job, and the seeming elusiveness of Mr. Sunday, but she wasn't sure why it was necessary to conceal her own identity for the sake of the mission. It was hard enough to trust people in general, but when she knew nothing of their name, history, or reputation, she had little to judge off of besides their personalities, and even then, that gave her too little to work with.

These suspicions, however, didn't outweigh the very fact that this was a paid job, and she needed to take it seriously. She would respect Mr. Saturday's wishes, no matter how eccentric or unnecessary they seemed. If he wanted there to be an air of mystery among them all, so be it - for now.

Armed with a few smaller firearms hidden on her person, and a few of the gadgets Saturday generously offered (because why the heck not), Tuesday simply gave a short nod (to no one in particular) before she turned around to head out. Her first stop would be the asylum. She figured that would be the best place to get a general profile of this Sunday guy, so she could get in his head a bit, and understand what he was like so she could figure out where he might be.

Riding on a small hoverboard, she weaved through the alleyways and back-roads as she made her way to the asylum. When it finally came into view, she pursed her lips behind the mask. The building didn't look much different than what Saturday had shown them, but in person, the building seemed to exude a much more eerie presence. The prickly leave-less trees standing in the grassy area within its gates left much to be desired, and she began to understand why Saturday would send his ex-friend Sunday to such a place as this. It was creepy, and by all definitions of the word, simply depressing, especially at night. No wonder this was a private matter. Treating his friend like that (even if they were no longer friends in the present, hence she was now hunting the guy down), was just cold.

Shaking her head, she glided closely upside the building, creeping in from behind (even though the building seemed to be creeping up on her). Kicking up her board, she attached a shoulder strap to it before she slung it across her back. After looking the building up high and low, she checked all around for people observing, but amazingly, she found none. It seemed that such a place drew people away, and kept people in.

Stealthily, she snuck her way in through a window, after swiftly scaling the leering outer fence. As her feet landed on the floor of the empty hall, she immediately sensed something was off. Unless she had misunderstood (which was entirely possible), this place was still in use, and from what it seemed, she was in a normal hall where patients were kept. She was surprised to see no attendants, or any personel of the sort watching the hallway. That meant that undoubtedly, there were cameras. Staying in the shadows, she spotted them before they caught sight of her, and blacked them out with a thick black paint from a small spray-can attached to the belt on her hip.

With that taken care of, she began to walk slowly down the hall with gun in hand. Tuesday curiously peered into the cells through the small, tinted, one-way windows in each door, but quickly wished she hadn't. They all looked miserable.

Friday

He didn't care about the cameras.

They could him see. Why should it matter? He wore a screaming mask and was strapped with guns all over. No guard with any intelligence would challenge him.

The asylum was cold. He didn't know if asylums were usually this cold, or if this one had a funding cut and turned off the heat. Maybe that's why they had no guards.

He stopped himself. He a was reading too deeply into this place. Get in, get clues, get out were his orders. He had to follow them.

He kept an eye on the cameras as he continued down the corridor. Finally he saw what he was looking for. A cell with no camera angles towards it. Thus, no one was in it.

He tried to open the door, but it was locked. In seconds, a piece of C4 had been pulled from his bag, placed on the door, and detonated. The prisoners began to shouts and scream.

"Shut it!" They kept screaming. He pulled out a pistol and shot the ceiling. At last, they shut up.

Inside the cell was... Random gibberish? CATS HAVE ONLY SEVEN LIVES NO TIME FOR PIE THE CAKE IS A LIE WHAT IS 7 SQUARED No, Sunday was better than that. Friday took out a blue blacklight and aimed it at the wall.

Ah. Saturday, your onto me. Well, I've always been a step ahead. Even in the lab all those years ago. But, what fun is a chase without hints? I'll be at our old laboratory with a surprise. Or will I?

So that was his plan. But was Saturday onto him? The message was left in a way totally different from how he said it would be left. And what surprise did he have in mind?

As a rule of thumb, hit men never attack when they don't know everything. Nor do they attack a scientist in his or her lab. Should he report back to Saturday?

He decided to keep looking.

Thursday

Thursday watched the presentation with quiet patience, filing each piece of information in the back of his mind. The others around him all looked somber and serious, and he wondered if, unmasked, he'd recognize any Weekend Corp regulars. He'd certainly been in this room before, and he recognized the interior of the factory in Nevada, now a disfigured wreck. Too bad.

He considered his options. He wasn't sure he could fabricate a reasonable excuse to snoop around a college campus, and the haunting remains of an old laboratory or a ruined factory gave him the shivers. An operational asylum, on the other hand, seemed like a ripe ground for clues, and also an easy target. He excused himself, wished the others good luck, and paused outside to take stock of his arsenal.

In his jacket's inner pockets, he counted three pills left of the Weekend drug, nice and safe inside an unlabeled pouch. He flipped open a black plastic case and checked the loaded syringes--two ketamine, two pentobarbitol, a few benzodiazepines he'd got a hold of. Fresh needles. Maybe he could swipe some extras from the asylum while he was there...

He buttoned his jacket, straightened his tie, and followed the sidewalk back to the main road, where he flagged down a cab. "Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital, if you please."

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up in front of the old brick building. He paid in cash and stepped out into the chilly autumn air. He waited for the cab to drive off before removing his light mask and tucking it carefully into another pocket. Then, without hesitation, he strolled up to the main entrance and into the lobby. A young attendant manned the desk, an overweight, plain-faced girl in her twenties with limp hair tied back into a ponytail. The sort of girl who probably hadn't received many compliments in her life.

He leaned up against the desk with a wide smile. "Hey there, I'm really sorry--I'm such an idiot--but I'm here to visit someone, and I can't remember her name. It's my girlfriend's sister, and I was supposed to meet them both here. I came early as a surprise, and just realized I didn't think that one through. I don't suppose you can help me out?"

The attendant glanced at the visitor registry. "Technically, you need to be accompanied by a relative."

"Ah, I understand." He let his face fall into feigned disappointment. "Man, she's going to kill me when she hears I forgot her last name."

"What's the first name?"

He gave a bashful grin. "You're going to the think I'm the worst boyfriend in the world... Starts with an S, I think? Sarah maybe? Or Sandy?"

She chuckled at him, then scanned through the computer records. "Sandy Bower?"

"Bower, yes! That's it! Thank you, you have no idea how much you saved me. We've only been dating for two weeks. I think this is my big test--see if I treat her sister well, you know?"

"I don't think you have anything to worry about," she said, still smiling along with him.

"I really wanted to get there first and talk to Sandy a bit. Find out more about her, and then I can really impress Lillian when she gets here. But ah well, rules are rules, at least I won't look like a total ass for forgetting her name."

"Hey, well... how long until your girlfriend gets here?"

"Twenty minutes or so."

"You know what, that should be fine." She hit a button under the desk, and the door into the hospital unlocked with a click. "Go right on in. I won't tell her you're here." She winked at him.

"Oh my god, thank you! You're an angel." He kissed his fingers and planed the kiss on the desk, before hopping back and pushing open the door to the corridor. He beamed at her one last time before stepping out of her sight, then as soon as he was through, the smile vanished. He pulled his mask back out, slipped it over his face, and headed toward the patient cells.

Tuesday

BLAM.

Tuesday whirled, with a gun in hand. That sounded like C4. And then there were cries from the poor people in the cells of the asylum, and it simultaneously creeped her out and... actually made her feel kind of bad for them. They however, quickly shut up after the sound of a gunshot. She began to quickly and silently make her way to the source of the noise, which was a floor below.

That's either Sunday, or one of those other hitmen knows not the meaning of subtlety. She was skilled, and could admittedly, easily escape the hands of the law if the problem arose, but creating an unnecessary ruckus was just... stupid. And unnecessary.

As she made it to the cell where the C4 had been detonated, she saw the figure of the man with the scream mask. Very creative. At least one of the guys had a nice masquerade mask. This one just looked like a cheap horror movie knockoff. But then she caught sight of the words on the wall.

I'll be at our old laboratory with a surprise. Or will I?

She rolled her eyes.

"Dumbass." She mumbled, more remarking on the masked man's methods, but also providing valuable commentary on the nature of their target. Clearly this was going to be a challenge - one more look at the exploded room - for all of them.

The scream mask guy looked back at her, and although she could not see his expression, and neither him hers, she knew it probably wasn't one of a benign nature.

"Sunday." She correct herself, passively lying just not to set more C4 off. "Not you." Before he could respond, she, annoyed, continued conversation.

"You're Friday, right?" She pointed to herself. "Tuesday." A fake grin grew under her mask. "Try not to get in my way, alright? And don't scare the patients. They have enough problems."

And with that, she left, not really desiring conversation, but noting that at least according to the note on the wall, Sunday wasn't there. One quick glance at the rest of the relatively empty cell told her there wasn't much else to find, and even if there was, Scream face would probably want it for himself, and if need be, they could all pull information together if they were all struggling to find the Sunday brat. But as said before, Sunday was probably not currently in the building. But that didn't mean there wasn't any info on him in the building - so she headed downstairs, to the basement, where the filing room would be.

She was amazed that they had both digital and paper files, because physical documents were much less secure in that their locks were easier to crack.

But then she realized something.

She didn't catch Mr.Sunday's full name.

Spoiler

I jumped to the assumption that Friday went to the asylum at the same time as Tuesday. If that's not ok, then we can delete/ignore this post! Also, I only assume that Tuesday could hear the explosion because of the reactions of the patients in the asylum. Otherwise, I would be unsure if Friday used his "silencing/muting" powers to mask the sound.

Wednesday

The mask grew on Wednesday's face like it was another layer of skin to be put on. She pulled up her sleeves, clutching them in her hands while letting her legs go on auto-pilot. The orange glow of the streetlights dimly lit up the streets. Wednesday tries to process all of the information that she had been told. There was no right way to find Mr. Sunday; what did Mr. Saturday mean by that? Wednesday didn't think he could appear wherever she looked. It sounded like an impossible mission, but that meant more time with a mask covering her face and hiding her identity.

The power flowed through her when she had the mask on. Looking and making sure no one was around to see, the fresh green vines shot out of her sleeves, uncoiling around her arm. There were marks where the vines rested, pushing into her skin, but she got used to the pain and restriction they had on her by now. Wednesday latched herself to a large building and pulled herself up, barely leaving time for anyone to see her swift shadow moving through the air.

From building to building and rooftop to rooftop, Wednesday progressed. She didn't know where to look, and she barely knew who she was looking for. She hated the vagueness of Mr. Saturday's words. Wednesday needed a place and needed a time and needed a why and a how, but all she got was a who. It still seemed like an impossible mission.

But Wednesday keep searching anyway. The pale moonlight gleamed over the buildings and the moon loomed over all their sleeping heads; a pale sticker in the sky ready to peel. Wednesday looked for hours, and she wondered if Sunday was even in the city. He could have been on the complete other side of the world, but Mr. Saturday didn't seem to be worrying about this. She peered over the edge, vines constricting her to the edge to keep her from falling.

On the ground, she spotted two figures covered in shadow talking to each other. Wednesday froze and observed. The vines started to slide down the building slowly, barely even able to be seen, and into the grass. The coil around her arms started to unravel and they felt weightless once again. Wednesday felt weightless.

In the blink of an eye, the vines snapped around the legs of the two figures and she silenced their voices like the trees and buildings silenced the moonlight. Muffled sounds came from below and a small laugh came from her lips.

Sunday, 1983: Christmas
Kingston Dormroom

"Samuel, go to sleep."

Samuel Sunday glared at the board in over his desk, brushing his fingers over the bandage over his left eye. His right eye twitched constantly, which is why he kept it closed more often than not--he was afraid it made him look like a lunatic. "Be quiet," he whispered. The moon shone onto the open windowsill, crickets humming into the night. "I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking since October," Saturday rolled in the top of the bunker bed, gazing down on his colleague. "We'll start from scratch, it's fine. One failure won't stop us."

"It's not--it's not just a failure, Simon," Sunday insisted. His nails accidentally pressed too hard on his bandages, and he flinched, staring at his fingers. Long. How long had it been since he last cut them? "It's--Bobo, there was something--wrong with him. Fundamentally impossible."

"Yeah, I get it, Sam. It was revelatory," Saturday stared at the low ceiling, inches away from his nose. "A month ago. Now it's old news, we don't need to think about it anymore."

"He stretched through chrome bars!" Sunday snapped to Saturday, opening his right eye, letting it twitch. "How are you handling this so well?"

"How many times do you need to rip into the chemical composition and Bobo's stomach before you're satisfied?" Saturday whined, "We won't find anything. And even if we do, then what? What do we do afterwards?"

Sunday looked back onto the board, ripping off a sheet of paper pinned on it. He read through it, jotting something new into the bottom of the sheet. "We've discovered something horrendous," he said, his right eye twitching again, "We cannot let this happen again."

"So you're trying to replicate it?"

"Yes. I mean, no. I mean--" Samuel stared at his fingers again. He swore, they were growing longer. "Simon."

"What?"

Samuel stood up, looking away from his bed to his desk. The sheet of paper crumbled on the desk, and there were books he didn't remember reading scattered about, notes on the board written by someone else. "Simon, there's something--"

He turned around, only to find that the bunkbed had disappeared, replaced by a normal one with a young man on it. There was blood trickling down his face, a hole in his forehead.

"Samuel? Samuel!"

The crickets whispered, still, but the night was loud. Sunday knelt down near his desk, clutching his head, letting out a blood-curdling scream. Saturday leaped out of his bed, shaking the man desperately. The night was loud. And then, it was silent.

Monday

God, I miss Mondays.

It was the first thought to cross his mind as he strode drenched through the torrents. Passing the tennis courts. Thinking back to the matches after school. How him and Charles Winkler would get delirious with excitement on the first day back after a long weekend, claiming "perfect tennis weather" no matter what the weather was.

It was almost funny. To think of it now.

In lieu of their high school dreams, life had become a tireless game of hit-and-run, and Saturday (the bastard) was only another joker playing for the prize of Most Laughs.

The audience was the guy called Sunday. A real pisser, according to the one who wanted him dead. And now I'm Monday, he figured, the guy who puts Sunday in the past.

Hm.

Monday liked these simple logistics. They were easy to follow, reliable, and required no elaborate context. He had one job--to kill Mr. Sunday--and one objective--to get paid. He had never seen himself heading into this business. It was never his style. But it wasn't anyone's style to become a hit man. It just happens. When you're poor. When you have poor friends. When you hate people.

He shrugged off his thoughts.

The boys' dorm was the bigger of the two, and Monday walked purposefully in its direction. He'd been at least partly sheltered by the trees until then, and knew eventually he would have to be seen by students on their way to class. He wasn't fazed by this probability. He found that generally, people didn't care to poke and prod at foreign confusion. They just laughed and whispered.

He stopped by the admissions building, and approached the front desk. The room was quiet. Classes had started, and everyone was tending to their own business. The lady behind the desk rolled her eyes.

"I'm looking for a room," Monday said. A bored monotone--a bit drunken-sounding.

"What's the mask for?" she asked.

"Costume party," Monday deadpanned, and then burped a little, knee buckling into a little stumble. "Last night."

"And what're you supposed to be?" she questioned. So she's that type of admissions counselor, Monday thought. Always trying to be one of the students.

"What does it look like?" Monday asked, slow-cadenced, nearly dropping the act out of frustration. Then he exhaled, pinching the bridge of the beak on his mask. "Look, I just need to find a room."

"What's your name?" she asked him. "It sounds like you weren't very smart about controlling your alcohol intake last--"

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Monday interjected, and unsheathed a knife from beneath the lapel of his coat. In one fluid motion, he had braced her neck, stabbed her in the heart and shoved her body underneath the desk. His head snapped around, catching sight of a man, standing open-mouthed in the doorway. The door was half-open behind him. "Mind closing that?" Monday asked, disgusted, and unclipped his other, more unassuming weapon, shooting the man with a tranquilizer dart. He was immediately stunned, and fell backwards against the door.

"Jesus," Monday sighed, and turned his attention to the computer.

He was a slow typist, in the words of his old Microcomputers teacher. He was so slow that he might as well have been typing backwards. He pecked at the keys with his fingers, mouth screwing in frustration as he navigated to the admissions history. He squinted at the screen. As he poked through old files, he only seemed to get more and more lost in the database.

He gave up with the files, and instead brought up the Chrome browser. He found the school's official online newspaper, The Kingston Daily. Almost immediately, he found the jackpot; a published news story concerning two students--close friends and biochemistry majors--and a suspicious event.

"Bonanza," he muttered.

Curiously, Monday began to read the report. Before he got far, he heard voices getting louder and footsteps approaching the door to the office. His eyes flitted back to the screen, landing on a photo of two boys standing outside their dorm room. One of them denoted the appearance of a younger Saturday. Monday had never seen the other man before. Neither of them were smiling; their faces looked as though they'd been caught doing something they shouldn't have.

Near the top of the photograph, Monday could barely make out the blurred room number painted on the door. 35.

Someone outside began thrusting their weight against the doorknob, screaming murder and asking who was inside "blocking up the door".

Monday exited his screen and shut down the computer before standing up. He scuffed his shoes on the carpet, leaving the rug stained with blood. Then he climbed awkwardly through the window, having to scrunch his broad shoulders to do so. It was a short walk to the dorm. He knew he'd have to move fast. A man in a crow mask would look like the perfect suspect for having committed the murder of two people.

He ignored the stares he got as he entered the building. Impotent. When he reached room 35, he was ready to kill any inhabitants who irked him, grab the information he needed and leave. The door had already been flung open. Monday stepped over the threshold, taking a glance at his surroundings.

Unfortunately, someone was already inside.

Tuesday

All leads at the asylum ran short. Either the prestigious asylum couldn't keep record of one such important patient as Sunday, or her suspicions were correct. It seemed that he was covering up evidence. Something must've happened and been recorded at the asylum that he didn't want them to find. Be it video footage, or a really feelsy counseling session, or a medication gone bad, Sunday was hiding something, and now he had them wrapped around their fingers with the cryptic message written on the wall that now led her to the lab, which she was standing outside of.

She began to question herself several times: what was the worth of this mission? The money was difficult to refuse but if this Sunday was as much of a maniac or twisted genius as he was turning out to be, she didn't know if she wanted to get wrapped up in that sort of shit.

She stood outside the lab building, looking from afar off, noting the limited entrances and exits of the lab's nature, since it was a basement after all. She ran through the information that Saturday had briefed them on about the lab - apparently someone had broken the lock. That's easy. I could've done that. The question is why. Someone was allegedly using some of Sunday's chemical formulas - the ones in his dorm - were being used here.

That meant someone could be there. Again, her employer's words rang through her head: "From the looks of it, Mr. Sunday isn't alone in his endeavor, either. You wouldn't want to meet with his patsies alone."

With a frustrated moan, she began to consider the odds against her if she were to get in, and be outnumbered. At her best, she could take out four or five by herself up close. From afar, she could pick them off one by one, but if any of them were within viewing distance of each other, they'd see her coming as soon as one went down. If there was any sort of large group, she could never take down that many on her own, and she didn't want to take chances. She planned these sort of things (usually with people she regarded as expendable, but she'd never tell them that).

Begrudgingly, she decided to call the other hitmen to come assist (not that she expected any of them too anyway). Not knowing their personalities well enough and how to approach asking (or rather, demanding) them helped her to raid the lab, she figured she'd use her charm.

Using the headpiece in her mask, she made a group call.

"Hey, this is Tuesday." She announced. "Sunday's batshit crazy and left a creepy as hell note in his room at the asylum saying he'd be at the lab with a 'surprise'. And I quote: 'Or will I.'"

"I don't want to be ambushed. Friday, you already know this - I assume you're on your way and can back me up. Everyone else, meet me in 30. If you can't just tell everyone you're bailing because you hated group projects in school and don't know what teamwork is. Out."

Spoiler

@ everyone I guess

Saturday, Present Day

The woman on the other side of the one-sided mirror was evidently mad--in the traditional sense, of course. Classic paranoid schizophrenic, and even in her sedated state her mind was a mess of voices and delusions.

Sunday always knew how to keep good company.

"Are you affiliated in any way with a Samuel Sunday?" the detective on the other side of the mirror said, his voice slightly muffled.

The woman didn't reply. Mentally, her thoughts were scattered, visions and memories cramped into one small corner. Saturday saw his old friend in a decrepit cafeteria, no longer in his straitjacket, but sporting prison-like garb nonetheless. Sunday's voice was unclear. His eyes were hollow. He seemed to be mouthing instructions, of some capacity, but his head also seemed to be melting like a badly programmed video game asset, so Sunday couldn't tell what was to be trusted and what wasn't. "Well?" The counselor beside him asked, looking impatient. "Have you found anything?"

Saturday shook his head. "Her medication isn't effective, doctor," he said, as a matter-of-factly, "She still seems to be suffering from vivid hallucinations."

The counselor scowled. "Are you insinuating we haven't properly treated her?"

"I'm insinuating you've misdiagnosed her." Saturday replied, bluntly. "Or, at the very least, you've underestimated what she has."

"She's on one of the heaviest drugs we've ever given in this institute--"

"--in that case, I don't think she's sick at all." he looked the counselor in the eye, arching a brow.

The counselor crossed her arms, squinting at the telepathist. Sorting the matter out on her own in her head, she furrowed her brows. "She has--" she looked at the woman across the window. "--a troubled past."

Saturday's lips thinned. "Who was it?"

She sighed. "Her father dropped her off back in 2003. He never visited, never came back. No questions asked." she confessed. "Whenever we got her to talk, the therapists have got bits and pieces of her saying that her father may have murdered her mother, and she was the only one who saw it. And then, there's also the matter that she might've been..."

Saturday stared at the counselor, rifling through her thoughts. He nodded. "Hurt." he said, and he almost scolded himself for the underestimation. "Her father used a Straitjacket Drug to silence her."

The counselor glared at him in contempt, before looking away in pity. "You haven't done nearly enough to put that thing off the black market," she said, "I can't even tell at this point how many of my patients suffer from it."

"I--apologize." Saturday said, his voice meek.

There was a silence between the two. He coughed. "Ask her about the factory explosion," he told the counselor, "Perhaps--"

Something in his pockets vibrated, and he held up his hand, pulling it out. On the small, disk-like device, a hologram erupted out, featuring Tuesday's mask. "Boss?" she said, "We need to talk."

Saturday nodded. "Give me a moment," he told the counselor. He left the room, then, and for a moment it seemed like the woman on the other side of the mirror was staring at him.

Thursday

The building shook and dust rained from the old ceiling. Thursday flattened himself against a wall, the vibrations from the explosion reverberating up through his bones. One of his colleagues, no doubt. Tactless buffoons.

When no second explosion came, he relaxed, scowling. Footsteps pattered against the faded tile, somewhere down the hall around a bend, followed by muffled shouts. Doctors and orderlies, rushing to figure out what happened. Maybe he could use the chaos to his advantage.

Pulling off the mask, he arranged his face into an expression of panic, listened for another set of footsteps, planned his timing, and rushed around a corner.

He collided shoulder to shoulder with a middle-aged man in a white coat.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Thursday said, grabbing the man's elbow to help him catch his balance. Thursday let his words come out in a tumble. "Thank god, are you a doctor? What's going on? I was supposed to meet Lillian. Have you seen her--is she okay? I heard the bang, and I didn't know what to do, and--please, you have to help me!"

The man brushed himself off and straightened his specs, distractedly glancing down the corridor. "I don't know what's happened. Try not to panic--we'll have things under control shortly. If you'll excuse me--"

"She would have been on the third floor." He envisioned a map of the hospital in his mind, trying to place Mr. Sunday's cell. "East wing. Under the care of doctor--doctor--" He trailed off.

"Doctor Adams?" the other man supplied.

Bingo. Assuming, that was, that Mr. Sunday didn't warrant a specialist and had unique care compared to his cohorts. Considering the place's budget--he eyed the cracked mortar between the bricks--he didn't think that was likely.

"Thank you," Thursday said, suddenly calm. He closed the few inches between them and before the poor doctor could react, he had a needle buried in his neck and Thursday emptied the syringe. A fatal dose of pentobarbitol. Harsh, maybe, but he'd seen his face.

Thursday slipped his mask back on as the doctor crumpled to the floor. He jogged down the hall to the elevators, where after a moment's glance he found the list of names and offices. Sonja Adams, room 311. A pair of orderlies scurried by, and he kept his head down as he pushed through the door to the stairwell and made his way down to the office.

Doctor Adams had a meager space to work in, with a tiny window and a wall almost too cramped to fit the bookshelf and filing cabinets. The locked door, dark lights, and dead computer told him she wasn't in today. Excellent. He sidled around the cheap wooden desk and jiggled the metal drawer of the filing cabinet. Locked. Not a problem. Back to the desk--aha, bottom drawer. Key hidden inside a pocket-Bible near the back. Too easy. Why were people always so simple?

He pulled out the drawer and began rifling through file names starting with "S." He immediately gravitated toward the thickest of them, packed with carbon copy sheets and referral forms, but when he pulled it out, he was shocked to discover the name: Simon Saturday. Dated years before Sunday's purported admission to the hospital. Now that's interesting. Personal ties to Bellvue... now that explains a lot. But there wasn't time to nose through the documents right now. He flipped through just long enough to snatch some of the medical notes and stuff them in a pocket, then returned it to the drawer.

Sunday's file was near the back, surprisingly thin and crisp--not worn and torn like he would have expected. Just as he pulled it out, his comm went. Tuesday's voice chirped in his ear.

"Sunday's batshit crazy and left a creepy as hell note in his room at the asylum saying he'd be at the lab with a 'surprise'. And I quote: 'Or will I.'" Thursday glanced up as footsteps rattled by outside Adams' office. Lingering here wasn't a good idea, and following the next clue seemed as good a course as any. "I don't want to be ambushed. Friday, you already know this - I assume you're on your way and can back me up. Everyone else, meet me in 30."

Thursday slipped Sunday's file inside his coat. They could read it later. "I'm on my way," he said into the comm. "Over."