(originally written as "Diamond-Eyed Robot" for Wattpadpunkfiction's Song of the Punk contest 2021)

"Hiya, cutie," Daisy said as she slid onto a velvet-topped bar stool in the dining car. The champagne flutes in the rack over her head tinkled lightly as they swayed along with the rhythm of the train.

The robot behind the bar who had been slicing lemons swivelled its head in the direction of the woman's voice. "Good evening," it answered in a crackle that issued from the grill in the lower part of its metal head. "May I get you something to drink?"

"You bet your toots you can. Gin and tonic. Heavy on the gin." Daisy let her glittering clutch handbag fall onto the bar with a soft thump.

"Coming right up. Please insert the left edge of your ticket into the slot." One of the robot's four hands of articulated metal gestured toward a chromed slit in the wood of the bar directly in front of its stomach.

Daisy opened her handbag and slipped the stiff paper into the slot as instructed.

The robot's diamond eyes sparkled with blue light as the information was processed, instantly altering to champagne as the ticket, and passenger, was recognised. "One gin and tonic, heavy on the gin for Miss McGillicuddy!" it said brightly as one of its arms reached for a highball glass and another one for the ice tongs.

Daisy shook her head. "Oh please. The only person who calls me Miss McGillicuddy is my boss, and I don't want to be reminded of him or that dump I work at, um..." Daisy hesitated as she searched for the robot's name embroidered in silver thread on its burgundy waistcoat.

"Joe," the robot said helpfully, inclining its head forward in greeting.

"Right, Joe. Just call me Daisy, cutie."

"Sure thing, Daisy...cutie." Joe emitted a tinny, staccato haha at his little joke, dropping ice cubes into the highball glass as he simultaneously reached for a bottle of gin and the tonic nozzle.

Daisy giggled. "That was good. You're a real kidder, aren't you, cutie?"

Daisy turned half-away and cast a glance around the dining car of the Metropolitan Express.

Only a few of the tables with their crisp white tablecloths hosted diners talking in hushed whispers to each other, if they spoke at all. The long diamond-shaped windows that dotted one side of the car showed a darkening landscape in a blur of yellows, blues, pinks and blacks, like images from a movie screen.

"Kinda quiet around here, huh Joe?" Daisy said, turning back to face the robot. Her gin and tonic was waiting for her, a perfect, electric green circle of lime perched on the edge like a deco lizard.

Joe scanned the car in response to his customer's remark. "It's early. The dining and bar wagon of the Metropolitan Express gets hopping at around nine in the evening. Currently it is," Joe hesitated for a second, "seven nineteen in the evening." After another slight hesitation, Joe added, "We'll be picking up a good number of passengers in Costa Ventura, where we shall be arriving in approximately forty-five minutes."

"Jumped the gun again, did I? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride." Daisy laughed to herself and took a sip of her drink, smacking her lips and sighing.

Joe recognised the sounds of a customer satisfied with their order, but was slightly confused by her comment. He internally consulted the extensive library of mixed drink recipes in the data cache, but could find nothing called "Jump the Gun" or which included the words "bride" or "bridesmaid". From that, he concluded that his customer - Daisy, as he'd made a note that she wished to be called - was making a comment on her life circumstances, and not placing another order.

Joe was a bartender bot. He heard long, slurred tales of life circumstances almost nightly. After a few seconds, he concluded that Daisy was travelling to Oceanopolis (the destination on her ticket) for a wedding, where she was to be a bridesmaid.

This was not a happy event. A gun was possibly involved.

Joe was not programmed to take note of crimes not connected with the Metropolitan Express. That was left up to the humans who evaluated his recorded conversation log every ten journeys. Since a wedding featuring firearms in Oceanopolis was clearly not related to the Express, Joe dismissed the topic and went back to slicing lemons.

* * *

By time Costa Ventura was announced over the dinning car's public address system, Daisy had moved to a table and was picking at a plate of finger food. Her third gin and tonic sat sweating by her plate.

Outside, the colours of sunset had faded and the deep space of night settled in, turning the lights from houses into stars and distant cities into swirling galaxies.

She'd kept one eye on Joe, who had glided on his rail down to the other end of the bar to serve a cluster of business men after serving her her last drink. He was currently juggling limes for the entertainment of a bored little girl and her mother who had come to the dining car for a late dinner.

Their little conversation had more than fulfilled its purpose. She was already logged as having ordered a substantial amount of alcohol and the night hadn't even started yet.

She turned to look at her own face reflected, ghost white, in the window glass and shook her head.

Daisy wasn't Daisy's name.

The real Daisy McGillicuddy, she knew, was laying glassy-eyed in a pool of dried blood in the alley behind the five-story brick building where she worked. Hopefully, nobody would notice the shoes and stocking-clad ankles jutting out from under the dumpsters until garbage pick-up on Friday. And maybe, if she was lucky, the body would be fleeced of its valuables and rats gotten to Daisy's face by that time, delaying identification even more.

Daisy picked up another cracker topped with a breath-thin swirl of cucumber on a wavy bed of cream cheese, and daintily bit off a piece.

In a few minutes she'd go to the restroom and pour the drink down the toilet, just like she'd done with the second gin and tonic he'd ordered from Joe. And just like she'd continue to do for the rest of the night.

Shame about the hootch, but by time they got to Oceanopolis, Daisy had to be provably drunk as the proverbial skunk.

The woman pretending to be her, however, would be stone cold sober.

* * *

Ricky Torres boarded the Metropolitan Express in Costa Ventura, and made straight for the bar after handing his overnight bag and trumpet to one of the service robots in wagon 12.

He was wearing his goin' out baggy zoot suit with the gold chain and had slapped on some of the expensive cologne from the flask he'd stolen from the trombone player in his last band. His plan for the journey was to party the night away until five in the morning rolled them, steaming and bleary-eyed, into Oceanopolis, which wouldn't only be cheaper than a place in a dimly-lit sleeper car, but also promised to include music, booze and women.

And for Ricky Torres, that was a combination that couldn't be beat.

His first look-around in the bar and dining car was disappointing. Marrieds just finishing up their dinners, some chubby suits hunched over paperwork, a whiney little kid with its mom. Only a few dames here and there - but who from their hats and hairstyles all said forget it, I'm over thirty.

Jesus. Slim pickings.

Ricky climbed onto a bar stool that provided him with a good view of both ends of the car.

The silver-faced clocks over the doors showed the time to be eight fifteen.

Nine more hours to go until Beautiful Oceanopolis, the home of more jazz clubs than you could count. And hopefully a pull-out sofa at his friend Bruno's place where he could crash until his gig at The Savoy. That wasn't a sure thing, though. Bruno's cranky broad could have issues with hosting a snoring musician in their living room and he'd be forced to shell out for a hotel. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to. Hotels were expensive.

A bartender bot in a red waistcoat slid up to him on its rail. "Good evening. May I get you something to drink?"

"Yeah, whisky. Neat."

"Coming right up. Please insert the left edge of your ticket into the slot."

Ricky did as he was told, taking his ticket out of the inside pocket of his jacket and inserting it into the bar frame. The robot's diamond eyes altered colours a few times before it said, "I see this is your first time travelling with us, Mr Torres! That means your first drinks order is on the house. Welcome on board the Metropolitan Express! I wish you a pleasant journey in the name of the entire staff and the Metropolitan Company."

A smile crawled over Ricky's face.

This was more like it. He was used to drinking in places where the only languages the staff spoke were grunts and sarcasm, and you could never be sure nobody'd spit in your beer. Looked like his buddy Denny Diggs was right; it paid off to travel swank once in a while. He'd have to thank Denny for the ticket next time they played a gig together.

"Thanks, uh..."

"Joe," the robot said helpfully.

"Yeah, thanks Joe. 'Preciate it."

"No problem, Mr Torres!" The robot then informed him which Scottish and Irish whiskies the bar stocked, and ask for his preference. Ricky's toes curled in delight as he ordered the most expensive free drink of his life.

Maybe nine hours up the coast wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

Daisy recognised Ricky Torres the moment he slunk through the frosted glass door. She'd been sent a photograph of course, a clipping from some local event magazine in Palookaville, but it didn't do the man justice.

Flashy suit, brilliantined hair, unsteady gaze. The unmistakable look of someone who inhabited the dull shadows thrown by larger creatures, like a hungry rat on constant prowl for dropped tidbits.

A very fitting description, she found. If only all her clients were so precise in their commentaries.

Daisy watched as Joe the robot took Torres' order. An expensive whisky. A smirk twitched the corner of her ruby red lips. That must've been the freebie they gave all first time travellers. He'd switch to beer or bathtub gin before the hour was out.

One of the businessmen lumbered up to the bar, and Joe glided away, leaving Torres alone at the bar.

For the next while, Daisy observed as he nursed his whisky like a sick child. Oh, she'd seen how his gaze has swept over her, shortly appraising and then moving on. It was the same gaze that met every woman who entered the car, regardless of if they were alone or not.

He'd clearly not yet seen anything worth getting up for.

Around nine pm, the car started to fill up just like the robot had said it would. In the shuffle, Daisy got up, and slipped out to get rid of the warm G&T in the restroom. Once back in the dining wagon, she wobbled up to the bar a few places away from Torres and called in a slightly furry voice, "Joe! Another gin and tonic, cutie, please. I'm empty."

The robot turned its head in her direction. "Coming right up, Daisy! Here or at your table?"

"Here, cutie pie." She knocked the wood of the bar twice with her empty glass. "Right here."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Torres throw an amused glance her way as he dropped a handful of complimentary peanuts into his mouth.

Two human staff were in the process of placing another bartender robot with the name "Eddie" embroidered on his waistcoat onto the copper rails behind the bar. Daisy would have to wait for a few minutes before Joe had enough glide space to fill her order. She looked around, staring a little unsteadily at the dress of the woman standing next to her, then peering up at the shimmering lights embedded in the ceiling between the diamond-shaped mirrors...then aiming a gaze at Torres.

He was gazing back.

"Hi you," she said. "Waiting for Joe to mix you up a G&T, too?"

Torres shook his head, his hair gleaming like a newly pressed phonograph record, comb grooves and all. "He make a good one?"

Daisy nodded. "The breast. I mean best. Breast! Christ, listen to me." She laughed.

So did Torres.

"Here you go. One G&T for my favourite Daisy," Joe said, sliding a sparkling, gin and tonic - heavy on the gin - in front of her. This time, a perfect circle of lemon sat perched on the rim.

"Thank you soooo much, my favourite Joe Cutie," Daisy said, throwing him a kiss before swaying like a willow in the breeze back to her table.

* * *

Ricky watched Daisy go.

The girl was half-shnockered and it wasn't even nine thirty yet. Obviously a bored secretary on vacation. Or maybe her boss was on the train and she was hiding from him, or from typing up some dull letters.

She didn't have a bad figure, face was okay, but not really his type. Maybe if nothing else turned up, he'd come back to her by the end of the night.

If she hadn't passed out by then.

He took another small sip of his whisky, enjoying for the umpteenth time how smoothly it went down.

The door to the dining car opened.

Ricky looked up to see if anything interesting was on its way in.

* * *

At eleven, the public address system of the Metropolitan Express announced their arrival at Irmaville Station, but no one in the dining car paid it any mind.

Ice cubes shook against the sides of glasses, jokes harvested peels of laughter and the latest jazz tunes peeled out of the discreetly placed speakers to do the jitterbug over the passengers' heads.

Daisy wobbled up to the bar, squeezing herself in as close to Torres as possible.

"Joe, cutie!" she called, waving a hand so the robot could pick her out at the crowded bar. Joe rotated his head towards the sound.

"Be right with you, Daisy!" he answered, two of his arms tapping beers while one rattled a martini shaker. "Gimme a 'mo".

Daisy turned her head towards Torres, and sniffed. "I gotta wait a little."

"I see that."

Daisy peered at the beer parked on a paper doily in front of him. He'd made the switch to piss water when he'd no longer been able to string the whisky out, just like she'd thought. Men like Torres were so predictable. "What are you having?"

"Beer," he said. Then after a moment, he added, "Import."

"Oooooo, import," Daisy smiled and rocked back and forth on her heels. "That the expensive stuff?"

Torres grinned. "You bet it is. That's me, class all the way."

"Can I have a sip?"

A warning flash blitzed in Torres' eyes, but dissipated quickly. "Sure, go ahead," he said, and slid the glass in her direction, even though Daisy was sure that's the last thing he wanted.

A cheapskate through and through.

By time her drink arrived, accompanied by apologies from Joe before he whizzed off to fill more orders, Daisy had her arm round Torres' shoulders and was leaning against him. She could feel the slim outline of his wallet and the much harder waves of a pair of brass knuckles against her thigh and side, which made her slightly more cautious.

At least she didn't feel the weight or shape of a handgun in his jacket.

"Joe! Get...sorry, what's your name?" Daisy asked, putting her mouth as close to Torres' as was possible without kissing him.

"Ricky."

Joe slid up on his rail.

"Get Ricky another imperty beer thing, will ya, cutie? He's gonna be empty reeeally soon."

"Mr Torres?" Joe asked, his diamond eyes glowing mint green in expectation of receiving a drinks order.

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Torres said. As Joe slid away, he put his arm around Daisy's waist and gave her a squeeze.

* * *

Joe had the end of the bar where Mr Torres was sitting. Eddie, his co-bot, the other end. When the clocks showed one thirty in the morning and the after-midnight rush was over, they both idled patiently at their posts, waiting to get refills for the remaining passengers who had not yet found their way back to their sleepers or seats.

Daisy, who had been sitting very close to Mr Torres, had just wobbled off to powder her nose, taking her glass with her.

Joe knew it normally took a long time for women to use powder, which was odd, considering that, as far as he could tell, their noses were not all that large. Joe calculated that he had a good five minutes.

He slid himself in front of Mr Torres.

"Can I get you anything, Mr Torres? We have a particularly fine nut mix that compliments the hops of lager beers superbly. Care to try a sachet?"

A mumble came from Joe's customer who was leaning on the bar, his chin resting in one hand. His eyelids were at half-mast.

"Mr Torres?" Joe reached out one of his hands and gently pulled the glass containing the bar's cheapest beer (not a Grade A import as his customer Daisy seemed to think) towards himself. It was how he was programmed to find out if a customer had fallen asleep.

"Huh?" The man sat up, automatically pulling the beer back.

Not asleep.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Oh. Nah. I'm fine." Mr Torres' eyes fell half-shut again and he seemed to sink into himself.

"Okey dokey." Joe hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to encourage his customers whenever possible and fulfill their wishes, but through experience he'd discovered that that was sometimes more difficult than one might think.

"It's very kind of you to keep Daisy company," Joe said.

"Huh?"

"Daisy. Daisy McGullicuddy. The passenger you've been talking to for the last two hours, Mr Torres. She isn't happy. You may have noticed. She might have told you that she's travelling to Oceanopolis to attend a wedding. As a bridesmaid. It's very sad and possibly why she's ordered so many drinks."

"No," Torres shook his head. "And? Whass sad abou' a weddin'?"

"It's Daisy's wish to be the bride."

Torres snorted and lifted the beer glass to his lips, taking an unsteady sip. "Thasss every dame's wish, robot. Every ssingle lass wonna them. Ain't tellin' me nuthin' I dunno."

"But this wedding is different."

"Huh? Why?

"Because there may possibly be guns involved. Daisy might have to use one."

Torres seemed to perk up at the word guns.

"You mean...a sshotgun wedding? Or isss she jus gonna shoot the bride an sssteal her bouquet thingy?" Torres formed the fingers of one hand into a pistol shape and said: "Bang!" Then he snorted again, but this time it sounded more to Joe like a laugh.

"I don't know, Mr Torres. All I know is that it's very kind of you to keep her company. She's quite upset about not being the bride. She's tired of being a bridesmaid, and wants to change that very very much."

Mr Torres squinted at Joe. "You tryin' to tell me sssomthin'?"

Joe was, but it was beyond his programmed capabilities to encourage one customer to ask another on a date.

And it had nothing to do with the Express; it was a life circumstance issue. Best left up to humans. But his customer Daisy had said she was unhappy and she certainly was drinking far over the recommended limit, as his internal log told him.

He didn't understand very much about these things, but he was programmed to be helpful and Daisy needed help. Realising he had no real answers, he said nothing and glided away.

* * *

Daisy McGillicuddy, Daisy McGillicuddy. The name swum around in Ricky's brain like a lazy goldfish, nibbling at his memory. He'd heard it before, but where? Daisy McGillicuddy. Was that one of Denny's old flames? No. One of the broads who hung out at the clubs in Costa Ventura like they were wall fixtures? No. He didn't think so, no.

Damn. Where did he know that name from? He hated it when this happened. It was like not being able to remember the name of a Hollywood starlet whose movie you'd just seen, or a new band member five minutes after shaking the guy's hand.

Ricky thought as hard as he could but gave up quickly due to the pain it caused in his head. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the train, his eyelids drooped and he felt that comforting numbness the robot bartender had disturbed settle over him again.

Wait! His eyes popped open.

He recognised the name, yes, but not the face. He'd never seen this Daisy before in his life.

How could he know the name, but not the dame?

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the thought vanished into a long, dark tunnel of drowsiness, leaving Ricky behind, blank-minded and clutching his beer.

* * *

Daisy looked at herself in the restroom mirror.

Everything was going more or less to plan, except that Torres had reacted about an hour too quickly to the tab she'd dropped into her gin. Even though he'd balked, she'd forced him to drink a few swigs of it in "payment" for that dishwater of his she'd drunk.

Import, her ass.

Now all she had to do was get him back to her sleeper cabin and make sure he stayed blitzed until the end of the line.

She consulted her wristwatch and calculated, wondering if she should keep on the safe side and slip him the second tab hidden in a side pocket of her glittery clutch purse, or if the one was enough. She needed him at least able to put one foot in front of the other when they got into Oceanopolis.

The Sundown Arms Hotel was only two blocks from the station. But two blocks lugging a nearly comatose deadweight and his luggage was still far too far.

People would notice; people would remember. Even so early in the morning.

Daisy knew that from experience.

But her client wanted Torres alive. Although she was positive he wouldn't be for too long after she delivered him.

* * *

Ricky Torres only had a vague notion where they were going as he stumbled down wood-panelled corridors with such dim wattage they looked foggy.

Or was that his eyes?

Daisy had come back from the powder room, laid all over him and asked him to take her to sleeper cabin because she needed some shut-eye and didn't trust herself to get there alone.

Holy moly! Was this what rich swells got all the time? It had never happened before that he'd picked up a dame without so much as having to buy her a drink.

He'd grinned from ear-to-ear and hopped off the bar stool he'd thought he'd spend the whole night on. Or rather slid off, he wasn't exactly sure.

Okay, she wouldn't have been his first choice, but she'd do and Ricky Torres was a gentleman, sure he was. He'd never in his entire life let a dame in that kind of need down and he wasn't going to start now.

Still, he felt strange.

And like her hand on his elbow was more steering him than he was leading her.

The cabin was small, and for or some reason, he toppled onto the narrow pull-down bed face first the moment he stepped over the threshold.

Ricky's second to last thought before he passed out was: I hope she's not going to charge me.

The last one was: Hold on, Daisy McGillicuddy! She was that broad I —

Then nothing.

* * *

Early morning rays of light shone through the tinted windows, making the champagne flutes hanging in the overhead rack sparkle like jewels in a dusky robber's cave. As he folded cloth napkins into fans, Joe could hear the automated station voice announcing arrivals and departures into the yawning hustle and bustle of a city just waking up through the open train doors.

They'd arrived in Oceanopolis - The City by the Sea - some thirty minutes before and the dining and bar wagon sat still and deserted. In five minutes, the Metropolitan Express' reserve electricity would be switched off and Joe would "sleep" until the return journey to Mesa Fortuna the following day.

With the last napkin folded and stowed, Joe had no more tasks. He rested all four of his hands on the bar and did an internal system check, finding the notation he'd left for himself.

Check on status of passenger: Daisy McGillicuddy.

A quick request and perusal of the Express' data log told him that Daisy had detrained some fifteen minutes previously...along wth Mr Torres. They had also paid their dining & bar bills at the same time.

A pulse of satisfaction curled through Joe's circuits, and his diamond eyes glowed pink.

He was programmed to help his customers, to make their lives happier, easier, and fulfill their wishes. And he'd done just that. Mr Torres had taken his advice and befriended unhappy Daisy, who now might have the chance to be a bride.

As the pink light in his eyes returned to the normal white, Joe considered how nice it would be to greet them on board again sometime soon.

After Daisy attended that wedding, where perhaps guns would be involved.

Although on that account, he could well be mistaken.