2020.03.27 - Bowling for Prizes
Metropolis - Rainbow Lanes
In a major departure from the high-tech, super-advanced businesses that make up the West Side, this is a classic bowling alley. The place is all bright lights and bold colors, punctuated by the occasional crash of balls into pins. The front entrance is two sets of double glass doors, which open into a small lobby with the admission and shoe rental desk. Beyond there is the long, wide room with twelve lanes, each featuring a seating area and scorekeeping station. On the back wall, arcade games and a small snack bar provide distractions and entertainments for those not actively bowling. The hot dogs are rumored to be dangerous, but the nachos are reportedly superb. On the wall above the bowling lanes, massive, mismatched neon letters spell out the place's name.
When you think of badass former-sorta-villains and antiheroes, what do you think of them doing? Did you say go bowling at a neon rainbow place in the alien district of Metropolis? Because that's what they're doing!
Daken is wearing his usual tight-fitting pants, though he's exchanged his fashionable shoes for bowling shoes. Somehow he makes them work with the rest of his ensemble. His shirt, as usual completely unbuttoned down the front, is more tropical than usual. Maybe it's to be ironic.
He scribbles on the score card. "Okay, another strike. I'm learning that projectile games aren't that fun with you." There's pool tables, but...projectile game. "You could try your hand at Galaga, maybe. I would've thought it would be a little inappropriate, given the surroundings, but people seem to like it. Or there's Ms. Pac-Man. Which is the better Pac-Man game."
Bowling wouldn't have been Lester's first choice for downtime, especially at a place as family-friendly as this one is. Alien families, sure, but still. And though his face, his posture, his attitude, or his voice would ever admit it, it's been kind of fun.
He's dressed far less flashy than Daken (damn, those pants are snug), his jeans are well-fitted, and his black shirt accentuates his acrobat's physique well. He's in sock feet on the lane, having flatly refused to put on rented shoes. ('It's nothin' to do with aliens,' he'd said. 'It's a matter of hygiene.') He seems unimpressed with his latest strike, which he bowled off-handed, and from an extra six feet back.
"You can blindfold me next time," he says, his voice flat as he moves back to the score table. "Maybe spin me a round a couple of times. Give me a fuckin' challenge." He drops into the seat next to Daken, and picks up his beer to take a pull from it. He wrinkles his nose at the cop-out suggestions, and lifts a shoulder. "I liked Duck Hunt," he says of video games, looking towards the arcade. "They got that? The one with the snickerin' dog?"
"No." Daken leans back, folding his hands on the back of his head. "They've got House of the Dead, though. One of them, anyway. Wanna dazzle me with your light gun skills fighting undead mutant types? Not my kind of mutants." He breaks into a grin, looking Lester over. There's so much to appreciate about that. The whole ensemble; he's going to have to do some clever accessorizing for the marksman. "I should get you some really nice socks," he comments, a little tangentially. "Ones with stripes, and ones with designs...maybe I could get you some in a target pattern. I know they make them, and you'd look good in them."
Lester's inhale is barely audible when Daken lifts his hands to put them behind his head. He covers it smoothly by tipping his bottle to his lips. He shakes his head at the offer of the other game. "Let's finish this. I want to see them shit themselves when I get a perfect game." He grins, then, already picturing it in his head. He can almost smell that trophy...this time, the inhalation is more audible, and not covered. Daken's comments about his socks furrows his brow, and he looks down at his perfectly serviceable white tube socks. "What's wrong with my socks?" he asks, then looks up, narrowing his eyes at Daken suspiciously. "Why are you so weird about my feet? You're not a foot freak, are you?"
Daken's grin just spreads at that reaction. He either doesn't notice the inhalation, or he takes it for granted. It's not unusual. "I'm an all-purpose freak," he replies easily. "There's nothing wrong with the socks you're wearing. They're just perfunctory. The ones I have in mind are a pleasure to wear, you'd notice it. They support your feet's structure, and the foot has the most reflex points of the body, so it would be so much nicer for that fine body of yours." This he accompanies with a very casual wink.
Lester stares at Daken for a long moment after his confession. Then he shrugs, lifting his beer to his lips. "Yeah, you're pretty freaky," he says, then takes a swig, swallowing audibly. He drops his beer to rest it against his leg as he bends to look at his perfunctory socks again. Which pulls him a bit closer to Daken, which elicits another inhalation that's masked as a grunt as he bends over to watch his toes waggle through the thick cotton. "You do give pretty good foot massage," he admits, grinding the words out as he straightens back up. He lifts a shoulder, then, his ever-fuzzying head lowering his guard. "If you wanna buy me some socks, I ain't gonna stop you. Just don't make 'em too fuckin' stupid-lookin'." He shrugs, looking away and speaking in a low voice, mostly to himself. "In case we go bowlin' again."
Freak is just another name Daken has collected, over the years. He wears it more as a badge of pride than anything he should feel ashamed of. Which is one reason why he likes to hear it from Lester. "Oh, I'll make sure they suit your motif," he reassures, leaning only slightly closer. He even lowers his voice as he continues the thought, considering Lester's insecurities even when they're alone. "I like to watch you bowl. I think I'd enjoy playing House of the Dead with you, but I can't promise anything. I might want to give you a special reward if you beat the game on one token."
Lester snickers at the use of the term 'motif', though he doesn't deny he has one. When the other man leans closer, he stiffens, but doesn't back up like Daken was on fire, which is probably progress of a sort. His nostrils flare, and by the time Daken finishes speaking, his eyes seem unfocused. He's still together enough to smirk at the offer of a reward. "Might as well give it to me now," he notes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "I can beat that game on someone else's last leftover suck-ass life."
"Tsk. Lester." Daken's grin doesn't even lighten, not even a little. "You know I can't do that in a place like this. It's far too public." Without another word, he rises and, reaching down, touches Lester's shoulder softly. Just once, just for a second, and then he turns and walks over to the arcade. It's remarkably graceful, considering he's wearing bowling shoes, which are about the most ungraceful thing possible at the moment. But this is a special bowling alley, and the shoes are pleasantly rainbow-colored. Maybe they suit him a little bit, after all.
Lester grimaces at the tease -- or, more accurately, setting Daken up to tease him. He should have seen that coming. He does anticipate the touch when Daken rises, and he tenses only briefly before he's up and following along. "It's your turn," he notes as they leave the pit, looking back at the incomplete scores mocking him from on high. He doesn't bother to put on shoes, confident his current socks will protect him well enough. "Don't you wanna finish it off?"
"We can finish it after House of the Dead, can't we?" Daken turns back, smiling as he watches Lester catch him up. He waits for that, and then walks with him, side by side. "Nobody's going to take our lane. Or if they do, they're not going to have a very fun time, with scores like that on the card."
"I guess," Lester says grudgingly, looking back at the scores. "But nobody better fuckin' erase 'em." He follows along, unhappy about the interruption, but willing to go along. "You seen me shoot before," he grumbles, digging in his pocket for a dollar bill in case they pass a change machine. "I don't know why we're doin' it now." He sniffs, getting a big noseful of Daken. "You probably just wanna...look at my ass or somethin' while I'm distracted." He snorts. "Perv."
There is a token machine, so Daken makes a beeline for it and gets his money out before he lets Lester reach it. He collects the tokens, of which there are four, and holds them out to Lester. "Why wouldn't I just look at your ass any time? It's not like you're wearing a dress or something that hides it." Then he turns back to the machine and puts another dollar through, collecting his tokens after and motioning with a jerk of his head toward the game machine.
Lester scowls when Daken gets tokens before he can, and his face is a thundercloud when the other man holds them out, extending his hand with a dark look. "You probably do," he counters, clenching his fist around the tokens when they're in his hand. He glares at Daken when he takes the lead again, but he's slightly ahead, so it might be unseen. Not that his expression is any lighter when he catches up with the mutant. "So, what do I get if I win?" he growls, jingling the tokens in his hand. "It better be good."
"It's going to be the best! You'll love it." Daken goes with Lester to the machine and puts in his first token, getting himself situated and drawing the light gun from its holster. He glances over the instructions on the cabinet, then grins over to Lester and waits for him to get ready. "Be sure to do your best. It's the kind of prize that is priceless...meaning most people couldn't afford it in a million years." He squeezes the trigger to signal in his participation to the game, after Lester does.
"Aw, Christ," Lester says, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut briefly. "It's one of them kind of prizes." He sighs, and steps forward, dropping his token into the machine and picking up his gun. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this shit," he mutters, shooting the screen to signal his entry. And maybe he doesn't. But he sure is huffing mad. Or maybe just huffing. Tucking the tip of his tongue in his teeth, he narrows his eyes at the screen. "Get ready, perv. I'm about to smoke your fancy ass."
That makes Daken shiver, just a little. It's his turn to be inexplicably fascinated and turned on by what he sees. The tongue in the teeth is just adorable. Adorkable, maybe. "I'm not concerned with competition in this game," he answers, agreeably enough. "We just need to see if we can't put down this force of zombie horror." And then the first wave begins.
If one were to be stuck in a zombie apocalypse with an unlimited amount of ammunition, Lester is the person one wants to have with them. The former assassin is in his wheelhouse even more than on the lane. His eyes narrowed, his gun barely flicks as he picks off each zombie mutant on the screen in rapid succession. In thirty seconds, the load screen for the second wave pops up, and Lester continues taking out the horde, chewing on that tip of his tongue like a craftsman laboring over a particularly favored piece. His eyes glint with pleasure at each digitized squeal as a foe drops. Definitely in his own world, he may not even remember Daken is there. He's certainly not giving him many chances to take his own shots.
Daken, it must be noted, isn't really trying to outdo Lester, or even match him. He leans slightly closer, getting a few shots off. And they are very good. His reflexes are excellent, and he's every bit as skilled a fighter as the (in)famous Bullseye. But he was being honest when he said he had no intention of competing with the other man. He's just having a great time watching him work. Occasionally, he snatches up a couple more shots.
Lester isn't outwardly aware when Daken leans closer, but his pulse jumps, and he double-taps a zombie in surprise. Recovering swiftly, he finishes off the waves, one after the other, his gun barely seeming to flicker over to reload. Eventually, the game hits its limit, and a kill screen is reached, with Lester's score in the 'ridiculous' category. A fact that he seems greatly pleased with as he holsters his gun and turns to Daken. "No freaky foot stuff."
Well, looks like they survived House of the Dead! "We put an end to the Curien threat. Well done!" Daken leans closer, then, bringing his body almost up against Lester's. But he manages to keep himself from even so much as touching the other man, even though he's so close, his warmth can be felt. His sweet perfume can be detected on the air, with an intensity that slowly builds. His mouth is barely five inches from Lester's ear, and his whispery breaths tickle. "Your prize is...you can command me to do one thing. It can be whatever you want, and I have to do it."
He eases back, then, grinning wickedly, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "Whatever you want. Want me to suck your dick, I will. Want me to piss myself in public, I have to. Want me to walk on my hands across the top of the Oscorp building naked? Sure."
Lester -freezes- when Daken gets up in his space, and his face reddens as that perfume and its hidden mysteries work their magic on him. His jaw works as he studies the other man's face, and his expression has that muddy uncertainty of his brain starting to fog. "I-I knew it was going to be something pervy," he says in a voice that's part disappointment and partly intrigued by the possibilities. He closes one eye thoughtfully. "Lemme think about it," he says, breathing deeply reflexively. "I want it to be good." He inhales again, sighing deeply. "For both of us." It's a murmur, almost lyrical.
For both of us! Daken hears that, and he cherishes it. He tucks it away in the depths of his strange, inscrutable heart and makes a note to himself to take it out and adore it later, every bit of that progress he's made by wearing away at any reluctance to indulge. And it is, surely, a pretty valuable, tempting offer from the pretty boy to end all pretty boys. "Yeah," he replies, voice smoky soft as the demo plays through on the screen beside them.
Lester sways a bit, his head reeling from the heady scent filling his nostrils. He might be on the verge of a bad decision until the scream of a zombie in the demo cuts through his reverie, and he blinks twice, hard. He frowns at Daken, then, and raises a hand to push at him without force. "Jesus. Keep it in your pants, perv." He snorts, and shoves his hands into his pockets, moving towards the alley proper. "Come on. I want to see if they drop them balloons when someone hits a perfect game."