2020.05.26 - How To Do Things

Calvin learns some life philosophy.

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Calvin has arrived in Little Bohemia to see a show a friend is in, but thanks to the vagaries of public transportation has arrived early. Consequently he is browsing the street vendors to kill time until the house opens. Right now he's looking through a collection of old books -- like, really old, illuminated manuscripts and the like -- with considerable curiosity, while sipping a frozen coffee drink.

One has to travel through New Bohemia to get to Queensland Park -- at least the way Lester takes. And it's not a terrible walk, as far as walks go. Maybe a little heavy on the hipsters and weirdos. The former assassin is dressed casually, which is to say in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, and he has a backpack slung over one shoulder as he walks. Stopping in at the same book stand that Calvin is currently perusing, he falls in next to the teenager to leans in and study the cover of an ancient binding of The Art of War. Something that makes him grin a bit, which is slightly unsettling, at best.

Calvin looks up from his book to the tightly-muscled bald man who has appeared next to him, trying not to stare at the marking on his forehead, or at his astonishing ass, or... well, trying not to stare, anyway. His attention is suddenly distracted by an increased awareness of everything around him... the woman across the street whose hand in her pocket might (but probably didn't) hold a gun, a car slowly navigating through the pedestrian-crowded streets that might be (but, again, probably wasn't) keeping a fixed distance from him for observation purposes, the redhead in the leather jacket who was skillfully picking a nearby tourist's pocket -- "HEY!" he shouts abruptly, upon noticing that. "Get away from him!!!"

The would-be thief looks up, startled, with her target's wallet in her hand... and bolts.

Without thinking, Calvin draws his arm back and launches the book he'd been reading into the air, where it describes a neat, shallow arc that strikes her wrist at precisely the right spot to force her to drop the stolen wallet. She stares at him incredulously for a moment, and he returns the incredulous look -- since when could he aim like that? Hell, since when did he notice potential threats like that? -- and then she disappears into the crowd.

Calvin moves quickly to retrieve the wallet, which he returns to the startled tourist, and the book, which is slightly the worse for wear. He returns to the book-seller, which is when he realizes that he'd dropped his coffee when he threw the book, and it had splashed on the large man's pant legs.

"Oh man, I'm sorry, sir... I'll take care of cleaning them, of course!"

Lester is aware of the redheaded thief, but he makes no move to stop the kid. He's not on the clock. But when the kid standing next to him goes off, the man stands, furrowing his brow at the would-be hero. When he nails that thin wrist with the book in his hand -- from what is easily thirty feet, the former assassin's eyebrows hike appreciatively.

All the commotion is enough to have distracted him from the dropped coffee. And he only notices it when Calvin brings it to his attention, and he looks down, his face turning red. "What the actual fuck?" he growls, looking up at the kid. "Damn right, you'll pay to have 'em cleaned," he says, narrowing his eyes at the kid. "Fucking watch what you're doing, or get better at it."

"Well, it was a pretty good throw," Calvin objected. "Which is so not the point, of course," he adds hastily, as the vendor gives him a glare that, while not nearly as terrifying as Baldie's, was still noteworthy. "And of course I'll buy the book," he adds hastily to his previous hasty addition, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and handing it to the vendor, who shows no interest in providing change. He nods, accepting that. "Sorry," he repeats, and "I said that already, sorry."

"It was a fuckin' amazing throw," Lester says, his mouth screwing up into a deep scowl. "Almost as good as me. But you're right. That ain't the fuckin' point." He remains scowling as the kid pays for the books and apologizes. And keeps apologizing. Rolling his eyes, he finally interrupts with a growl. "Jesus Christ, kid. Grow a pair of fuckin' balls and own up. Don't be a goddamned simp about it." He glares at the vendor, who's still hovering with an unhappy look. "The fuck you still standing here for? The kid paid for your shitty book club editions, so fuck off." When the vendor leaves in a 2020 Ford Huff, he turns back to the teenager. "So, where'd you learn to throw like that?"

"Um..." Calvin, suddenly on the spot, finds himself short of a plausible explanation. "I... don't really know," he stammers, "I've always just had good aim, I guess." No doubt he'd copied the talent, and the general environmental awareness, from the man himself... which suggests that Baldie is some kind of trained... something. "Are you a... baseball pitcher?" he asks hopefully.

"Hmmm." Lester doesn't sound entirely convinced, but he's not one to pick at someone's alibi unless it fucks his up. He lifts his chin in appreciation, and turns back to the book stand, helping himself to that copy of Art of War and slipping it into his backpack. He snorts a bit at the question, and lifts a shoulder. "Once," he says. "Maybe. Why? You want an autograph?"

"Just curious," Calvin shrugs. "Are... are you gonna pay for that?"

"You gonna turn me in?" Lester turns and fixes a stare on the kid that suggests that would be Very Bad Idea. "'Cause mindin' your business is an option, too."

"Um... well, I mean, I don't want to cause trouble, but..." He shrugs, pulls out his wallet again. He's got a ten and two ones left, having already done some shopping today, so he takes out the tenner, returns to the book-vendor's desk and puts it down without explanation. "Just, you know, there's a right way and a wrong way to do things, is all," he adds as he rejoins the distractingly fit book thief.

Lester seems either annoyed or amused by the junior white hat, and his expression shows exactly that. When the kid returns, he sniffs a bit, and really -looks- at the kid. "What the fuck is your deal?" he asks. "You some kind of superhero in training or something? Want to be one of the fucking Bat-kids? There's only like twelve of 'em."

Calvin considers the question seriously for a moment. He did team up with Nightwing the other night, even saw him out of costume (boy howdy did he ever!), so he supposed it wasn't completely out of the question, just astonishingly unlikely. "I don't know," he replies with a grin. "Are they hiring? That'd be pretty cool." Shaking his head, he continues "As long as we're on the subject, though... what's your deal? Did someone steal your trike as a kid, or were you born this surly?"

"They're always fuckin' hiring," Lester says with a scowl. "I figure the guy's a pervert or somethin'." He gives the kid another long look. "You'd probably get along fine in that group." He doesn't elaborate on that point, choosing to answer the kid's question with a sharp, malicious grin. "He did. Billy Martin, when I was five." He leans forward, into the kid's personal space, close enough to smell the cinnamon from the toothpick in his teeth, warm and spicy on his breath. "I broke his arm in three fuckin' places and took his goddamned roller blades." Then he's easing back, his grin suddenly wide and easy. "Good times."

Calvin nods. "Well, that explains it, then. Honestly, it's not an attractive look."

Which was, admittedly, totally not true. Calvin didn't normally think of himself as attracted to 'bad boy' types, but, well, apparently there was a first time for everything. "Have you considered therapy? Carrying around that much childhood anger can't be good for your blood pressure, you know?" He pauses for a beat before adding "And thanks for the compliment!" with a sunny smile.

Lester shrugs. "Works for me," he says. "You should see the trim I pull down." Like one uber-hot mutant, but try and pull -that- information from him. He doesn't seem all that bothered by Calvin's distaste, if that's what it is. He raises his eyebrows at the suggestion. "Who said I'm angry?" he asks, his tone genuinely confused. "You'll know when I'm angry, kid. People bleed." He takes the same beat that Calvin used, only not as sunny. "A lot."

Calvin shrugs that off, or at least tries to look like he does, though the truth is he absolutely believes it. "My mistake, then," he says, deadpan. "Your sunny disposition should've tipped me off. Anyway, I'm tapped on cash and I assume you aren't carrying a credit-card scanner around, so shall we find an ATM so I can pay for your dry-cleaning?"

"Just 'cause I ain't nice don't mean I'm angry, kid." Lester closes one eye and points a finger-gun at the kid. "Anger makes you sloppy." He snorts at the request, and gives the kid another long look. "Forget it. I'll throw 'em in the washer when I get where I'm going." He looks down at his boots, and frowns a bit. "I oughta throw a shit fit about my boots, but you ain't got the money to replace 'em, and I got a guy, so let's just call your little act of..." he waves a hand at the counter, where the vendor has already put the money in the till. "Whatever the fuck that was. Valor or some shit. We'll call that even, yeah?"

"Suits me," Calvin agrees. "Can I at least buy you lunch, though?"

Lester considers that for a moment, and shrugs. "Sure. What the fuck." He starts off without further comment, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure the kid is following. "What's your name, kid?"

"Calvin. Yes, like the cartoon character, no I don't have a stuffed tiger. They tell me I did when I was, like, two, but I don't remember. What's yours?"

"Calvin." Lester wrinkles his nose. "Jesus. I'm gonna call you Cal, because that is a shit name." He shakes his head sorrowfully, clearly bothered that the kid has been saddled with such a terrible moniker. It's almost criminal. "I'm Lester."

Calvin grins. "A guy named Lester is gonna give me shit about my name? Now I've heard everything. Well, then I guess I have to call you Les. Cal-Les... between us we sound like Superman's cousin or something. Whom I have yet to meet, by the way. Superman, that is, not his cousin. I figured if I hang around Metropolis long enough I'm bound to run into the guy, but so far no good."

"It's Lester." The ex-assassin's tone is Very Clear. He continues down the street, towards a by-the-slice pizza stand. "None of them Super goons is worth meeting," he says acidly. "Bunch of fuckin' Boy Scouts, the lot of 'em." He stops, and turns to look at Cal again, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You'd probably get along like gangbusters."

"Even the ones who aren't perverts?" Calvin asks, cheekily. "Good to know. Not that I'd kick Batman out of my bed, mind. So why aren't you a fan?"

Lester pauses. "I don't figure any of the Superman group to be perverts," he says, his mouth tugging downward thoughtfully. "Now, the Batman and his group...they're probably fuckin' wild." He shows a little tooth in the grin he has for that thought, and he savors it for a moment. The question brings him back, and he exhales heavily. "It's like you said, kid. There's a right way to get things done and there's the way to get them done that gets them done." He shrugs. "Our philosophies don't line up."

Calvin blushes as he remembers Nightwing, and tries to conceal the reaction. "Pragmatism?" he quotes dramatically instead. "Is that all you have to offer?" He shakes his head and chuckles. "Sorry... I'm in town to catch a friend performing in Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and I played Guildenstern a couple of years ago, and... and you don't care about any of that. Sorry. It's a quote, is all. Anyway... so, OK, Mister Lester: what's your philosophy?"

Lester makes a face as Cal quotes the play, and shakes his head. "I know that play," he says. "I had a friend who was in a production a while back." He lifts a shoulder. "It ain't bad. A lot of fuckin' gassin' on about nothin', but that's how all that highbrow shit is." He sniffs, giving Calvin a look that says he can totally believe the kid was in a production. Pulling up to the pizza stand, he stops and turns to consider Calvin's question. "I get things done so they stay done."

"Yeah, you seem more like a Mamet guy than a Becket guy," Calvin acknowledges, though whether he means that as a compliment or an insult or neither or perhaps both is unclear. "Sorry, I mean a fucking Mamet guy. I was pretty good, actually... I mean, it was just a high-school production, but the local paper came and reviewed us and stuff." He shrugs, self-consciously. "Yeah, OK, I'm bragging about a high-school play I was in. Shallow as fuck, I know. Still, it was a blast, highbrow or not." He considers Lester's answer, and decides he doesn't really know what to make of it, so he just gives a kind of noncommittal grunt of acknowledgment. Then, more judiciously: "And they don't?"

Lester places an order for four slices of pepperoni (the kid likes pepperoni, right?) and two large Soder Colas, paying for them before the kid can fish out his credit card. When the slices are put on the counter, he hands one to the kid. "I don't like Mamet, either," he says. "Just 'cause I fuckin' say fuck all the fuckin' time don't mean I've got my nose up my own ass like he does." He makes a face. "You see that shit movie with Rob Lowe and Demi Moore? That was Mamet." He hands over a Soder, and grimaces at the question. "They get shit done, but it don't stay done. How many times has the Joker broke out of Arkham? Why's A.I.M. still a fuckin' thing? Who the fuck is lettin' fuckers like Sinestro just go about their fuckin' business?" He lifts his eyebrows. "When I get shit done, it stays done."

Calvin thinks about that. Then he thinks about it some more. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Thinks very carefully about whether he actually wants to pursue this line of questioning with a man who has the skills Lester seems to have. Decides it would really be a VERY bad idea to do so.

Then thinks fuck it and says "You kill them, don't you."

It's not a question.

Lester sighs wistfully. "Not anymore."

"No," comes a voice from nearby. "He doesn't."

And there is Daken, smiling very happily, the smile of an innocent man, somehow. And he smells amazing. Looks generally amazing. He is, as usual, in a shirt he's barely wearing, with pants just tight enough to be interesting but not so tight that he doesn't have a certain mystique. Those muscles show their contours and definition with every slightest move, even just breathing. And his eyes twinkle when they catch the light, though there is a kind of intensity in his gaze.

Daken casts his eyes over Calvin, looking up from top to bottom, sizing him up. "Are you a chicken hawk, Lester? I didn't peg you for one."

"He's been a perfect gentleman," Calvin replies evenly, "even I after I spilled all over his jeans, so however you peg him ain't got nothing to do with me." He gives the new arrival a very careful looking over, and his skin begins to tingle with the indications of power. "Though, y'know, that might change," he muses approvingly. "Who are you?"

Lester rolls his eyes at the totally Daken-like entrance of Daken. There's a hard edge to his flattened mouth, and his eyes glint sharply as he looks at the mutant. "I ain't fuckin' the kid," he says. "I'm just rewardin' a goddamned hero." He takes a big bite of his pizza, wiping the grease from his mouth with his thumb and licking it clean. "Kid, this is Daken. Daken, this is Cal." He takes another bite, talking around it. "Don't breathe too deep around him, kid, or he'll be peggin' you before you know it."

"Spilled all over his jeans, eh? And what did you spill?" Daken's tone is almost too sweet. It's a little more unsettling when he's meeting someone new. Lester probably has learned not to worry, at this point in their acquaintance. "Do you mind if I join you? I thought I'd like to have some pizza today, and this is a great place to eat!" He waves a hand toward the outside. "Great food here in general. And now you have the best treat for the eyes in Metropolis, Cal. It's especially nice to eat, looking upon a particularly pleasing feature."

Unfortunately, at least from some perspectives, Cal has already been breathing deeply. He barely pays attention to the new arrival's flirtatious banter, altogether too focused on the man's scent. It is intriguing... no, more like intoxicating... and it takes an effort of will not to just walk over and lick him. Instead, he just stares, while his own senses become sharper, his movements quicker, and -- though he doesn't realize it -- the air around him grows heavy with supercharged adolescent pheromones of his own. Then: "AAAAAARGH!!!" He clutches one hand with another in front of his face as blood drips from the backs of both, where sharp bone spurs are now jutting out through the flesh... then blinks in confusion as the pain goes away and his skin heals around the cuts. "Jesus," he whispers, looking more than a little spooked, "what are you?"

Besides sexy as fuck, he thinks, but doesn't say.

Lester rolls his eyes at Daken's introduction, and pushes one of his slices at the mutant with a small lift to one side of that flat mouth. He might have another warning for Calvin when he see that familiar look in the kid's eyes and sees his nostrils flare in an oh-so-familiar way. Not that his own are doing the same thing or anything (they totally are, but Lester is an old pro at handling base-level Daken). When the kid pops claws like the old man's, Lester looks at Daken with a surprised expression (meaning his eyes are slightly wider, and his eyebrows are hiked). "I think the first fuckin' question is what the fuck are you?" he says, his teeth grinding a bit as that base level Daken shifts into stereo. "You're not his fuckin' kid, are you?"

That's surprising to Daken, as suddenly the kid bursts out with his own claws. "Oh, are you some sort of odd imitation?" He leans closer, sniffing and looking over the blood and all. "He's not my kid," he answers. "I'm a mutant," he explains to Cal. "How about you explain how you've done that?" His smile is the same, but somehow it seems a bit more imposing now. Almost a threat, unspoken and so much about it implicit and chilling.

Calvin gives Lester a head shake... but it's a legitimate question just the same. "I think maybe that's a conversation we should have somewhere a little less public," he suggests to both men. He suspects he ought to be afraid right now but, strangely, he really isn't. "Do you have a safehouse or anything nearby?"

"I swear to God, kid, if this is some sort of a shakedown, I'm gonna let the mutt have you, then stomp on whatever he fuckin' leaves behind." Lester glares at the kid before looking at Daken. "I ain't takin' him back to my place," he states flatly.

"Why would we have to have a safehouse?" Daken folds his arms on his chest, looking down in a good-natured sort of way -- sort of -- at Calvin. "So where did those claws come from? I think I'd like to hear an explanation about that, first. We can clean up this blood with some napkins or paper towels or something. But if you're trying to imitate me, you need to know first that I am irreplaceably unique, and second, that I have an excellent healing factor."

Calvin looks Lester over judiciously. It would not have occurred to him that he might be trying to pull something over on them, but now that he thinks about it -- or, well, the closest approximation to thinking he can manage with the scent of Daken climbing up his nostrils and invading his brain... it's a reasonable concern. He shakes his head. "No shakedown. No idea who you even are. My ability just picks up on..." he stops, looks around. "Seriously, we should get off the fucking street before having this conversation. I can rent a fucking hotel room, if that's what it takes," he adds, gesturing to the Metropolis Hilton visible in the distance.

"Your ability." Lester's expression hardens as pieces start to fall into place. He may talk at street-level, but his brain is faster than people allow for. "You got powers. You a mutie, or a meta?" He doesn't seem overly concerned about eavesdroppers as he circles the kid, looking him over. "Why you so worked up about bein' on the street?" he asks, looking around at the people passing who could give a shit about what three mugs are doing. "The feds after you or somethin'?"

Daken reaches out, very gingerly, to take one of Calvin's hands if he's allowed. "Just relax. You have to expend effort to pop your claws. Keep them in, relax. They'll heal over, if you're picking up my abilities. Just don't pop them again, or it's going to hurt." Even his tone is soothing, his posture is soothing, and the way his muscles pulse as he uses his thumbs to massage the boy's hand is definitely eye-catching.

Calvin shakes his head, confused and irritated and aroused. "No, not as far as I know, but... fuck it, you do what you want." With enormous difficulty he turns his back on both of them and starts shakily walking away, putting distance between him and the crowd of strangers. Then Daken takes his hand, and he stops, and the tension seems to melt out of him. His claws withdraw, and the cuts heal almost instantly. "Fuck, you smell good," he sighs.

Lester is almost willing to let the kid walk away -- he's played mentor enough, lately. But there's something about the teenager's state that twinges something in him. Luckily, Daken is much more touchy-feely, and lures the kid back. Because of course he did. "Kid," he says when Calvin soothes a bit. "First thing you need to know about hanging with us is that neither one of us give a shit what people think. No one cares, an' it's a waste of fuckin' energy pretendin'. So, let that shit go. Say what you gotta say, or don't. But we ain't -spies- or nothin'. No safehouses, no fuckin' government backup. Just us." He wrinkles his nose. "Well, and the kid. But he ain't here."

"I know." Daken smiles a little wider, releasing that hand and tilting his head to one side. "See? It's so easy. Incidentally, have you heard of Sky High? It's a place where you can get training in your powers. Then you won't have to worry so much about these little...incidents." He glances over to Lester, as he speaks, and the smile becomes more authentic. There's a profound affection in his gaze and familiarity in his posture. "Right. I'm Lester's lover, since we're being very open, and we don't care what anybody else thinks." His smile somehow seems wicked again, having said that so casually.

"The kid?" Calvin echoes, confused. "I thought I was -- never mind, it doesn't matter. And, fine, maybe nobody cares about you, great, good for you, must be nice." His manner hovers on the edge of petulance without _quite_ diving in. "But I've had people on my case ever since the doctors figured out that I wasn't winning all those awards just cuz I was smart." He shuts up when Daken starts talking, listens, nodding along docilely. He scowls when the man mentions Sky High, though. "Yeah, I know. That's where they sent me, when they figured out I wasn't normal. Not that they ever thought I was normal, but when they thought I was just some kind of brilliant wunderkind, when I was winning awards for their school and getting them writeups in the paper and shit, they were fine with it. But start using words like 'metahuman' and everything changes, man. So they shipped me off to Neverland, with all the other freaks." The bitterness in his voice is genuine, though it lacks the depth of true suffering... at the end of the day, Calvin remains a fairly privileged teenager from a wealthy family with a pretty kick-ass superpower, and however whiny he may get about his life deep down he knows it, and it shows. Which doesn't stop him from feeling shitty about it, admittedly. "Anyway, yeah, sure, you guys fuck, I mean Jesus, you're both built like fucking porn stars, you can fuck anyone you want to, I'm sure. And it's great that you don't mind everyone knowing your business, but I'd really rather not be reading about how my powers manifested on a public street in the middle of fucking Metropolis in tomorrow's Daily Bugle, so can I just please go now?"

If this were a manga game, there would be a large exclamation point over Lester's head when Daken makes that announcement. As it is, his eyes go nearly round and his face flushes a deep red as he grinds his teeth, glaring at Daken. But, he doesn't contradict the mutant. He doesn't confirm it, but he doesn't deny it. Still, little tendrils of smoke are coming off of him in some online comic somewhere. Then the kid is spouting off, and the former assassin's expression turns a bit harder (if that's possible), and he narrows his eyes at the kid. "So, you're a fucking ape," he says, without judgment, despite that expression. "So, what? People treated you like shit? Join the fuckin' club. You can fuck off if you wanna, but in a city full of fucking muties and metas -- that's got its own school for 'em -- who the fuck do you think is going to give a shit about you poppin' claw boners in Little Bohemia?" He sniffs, and goes back to his pizza. "We live in the area," he says over his shoulder, his mouth full. "When you get your head out, come an' look us up."

"Pff. I have other friends that go to Sky High. I might not like every person there, but I think your power is very useful. So why don't you calm down, and we'll just get on our way? If you insist." Daken looks to Lester. And he's saying what he does, and Daken is smiling, especially at that blush that just flashes across his features. He's amused, and he clearly wants pizza, as he had stated earlier.

"You don't have to worry," he continues, picking back up with Cal. "Lester's entirely correct, as usual. You won't be plastered across any news outlets. And if you make the Daily Bugle, we can just have a laugh about it. Who reads that and takes it seriously?" Bat Boy and Elvis might as well be staples.

My folks, Cal thought miserably, but damned if he was going to say it out loud... he already sounded like a whiny little kid, and that would just put icing on the cake.

You don't just sound like it, he told himself, frowning. You're BEING a whiny little kid. Which was true. And honestly, he wasn't sure why. Sure, yes, he was worried about getting caught out here, but basically they were right. It wouldn't be a big deal even if he was. His emotions were just running out of control, was all.

He looked up into Daken's smiling face and tentatively returned the smile. "You're... not wrong," he admits, reluctantly. He also notices that he's still holding two slices of pizza, neither of which he's actually bitten into yet. He offers one to Daken. "You like pepperoni?"