Logs:Double or Nothing

Double or Nothing
Dramatis Personae Roscoe, Tok
In Absentia	2024-06-24 "What are you betting?"
Location <NYC> Tilt - Salem Center
'<NYC> Tilt - Salem Center' Loud, loud, loud; the first noticeable thing about this arcade is the noise. Games of every kind each make noises of their own, from the roll-thunk of skeeball to the wakka-wakka-wakka of Pacman to the stomping beats of DDR to the shots and yells of more modern shooters -- there is something for every taste, here, and over it all the constant backdrop of conversations and laughter, or shouts of anger or celebration as someone dies or claims a new high score. Though perhaps the AC is on full blast in here, it is not quite managing to combat the double-punch of the hot, humming machines or the record-breaking heat waves on the East Coast. It's quite a bit darker in here than it was outside, and though Roscoe adjusts quicklike to the dim, he is wrinkling his nose sharply at the sweat-and-burnt-plastic aroma. He is dressed to beat the heat -- sleeveless red T-shirt, basketball shorts, socks and athletic slides -- somewhat fussily flipping a Celtics cap around backwards now that he's out of the sun, so his hair (recently bleached an orangey-blond that does not mesh well with his skin tone) tufts out the ponytail hole over his forehead. Then his hands are darting back to the straps of his drawstring backpack, pulling the cords together over his chest (whatever's in the bag makes a faint metallic sound.) He was beelining toward the shooters, before he spots a couple kids already at his preferred shooter and his steps drag off to one side to regroup -- "Sheesh," he says disappointedly (and very loud, over a couple Dance Dance Revolution players a few yards away), stepping up onto a low platform to better scowl at these game thieves, one hand gripping the handle of this shooter's fake gun for balance, "Okay. Uhh. What do you want to play?" Tok had brought their sweat jacket to hide their tail, but quickly abandoned it on the walk over, the garment now slung over their shoulder. The pockets of their cargo shorts also jangling metallically, and their tie-dye tank top they wear doesn’t do much to hide the bright red veins that decorate their skin. Tok’s ears immediately pinned back against their head against the noise of the arcade, eyes twitching against the sudden change in lighting, the heat, the smell. They do take a moment to adjust to the stimulation, and quickly follow behind Roscoe once they realize he’d begun making a beeline. They huff in tandem with Roscoe, despite not knowing the game he’d been aiming for, and shrugs at the question, “Me? Uh…” they look around, contemplating the shooter Roscoe’s leaning on, before pointing to an open air hockey table, “Ay! Bet I could beat you 10 to none with one of those!” They challenge, a cheeky grin tugging at their face. Roscoe cocks his head at the air hockey, then -- in wordless assent -- hops off his perch to head over to the table; he finds the coin slot easily and squats down beside it, swings his backpack off one shoulder. After a moment he extracts a small handful of quarters, which he thumbs one-by-one into the little tray -- "Ten to none, okay," he says at length. "Sooo if I get even one shot in, I win? You some kinda pong prodigy, is this a hustle?" Whether or not they are, he pushes the quarters in with a pleasant rattle of metal and stands up again. "What are you betting?" Tok grins when Roscoe accepts the challenge, and bounces on after him. Tok shoves their hands into their pockets and begins depositing their quarters on their side. They drop one and quickly snag it up before it can roll too far away, “Hell yeah! How hard can it be? I seen so many movies where they play this.” They deposit the last quarter and stand as well, tail waving back and forth in excitement, “Betting? Oh right. Uh…” They inspect their own clothes, then their pockets, as if they might find an answer. They don’t seem to find anything, and lean sideways with their hip against the air hockey table, “I win, you help me figure out a way into the danger room.” They jerk their head towards Roscoe, “What d’you want?” They pick up a few of the air hockey pucks. They juggle a few of them one handed for a few seconds before tossing one of them on the table. "You never played air hockey before?" Roscoe says, as the table lights up. "Oh I got this in the bag --" he seems to immediately second-guess this at seeing Tok juggle, cutting himself off, his eyebrows drawing sharply inward, before he -- very deliberately blithely -- goes on again. "-- dunno what you think I'm gonna do. Stand around and watch? The Danger Room is boring anyway, it's just a big empty room." Backpack firmly in place again, he claps his mallet down on the table, frowning dubiously at the puck slo-o-o-owly gliding from where Tok threw it. "Ford has this monogrammed pen," he says. “I almost got through a week ago. Got caught though.” Tok explains, grabbing one of the hockey mallets, “Figured you might know some secret passage way to it. You knew that fancy secret spot with the stairway and bookshelf when I first got here.” They flip the mallet in their hand, and also clap it down to the table. Their grin falters only slightly at the mention of Ford’s pen, their eyes squinting up towards Roscoe, before focusing back on the slow moving puck, “You want his fancy pen?“ they ask curiously, “What d’you want with his pen?” "Wait, what? How?" says Roscoe, quite belying his total disinterest of just five seconds ago. "Well, there is a -- nuh-uh, I didn't lose yet I don't have to tell you." His expression has fallen into his usual Resting Bored Face, though there is an edge of keenness in his dark eyes for just a moment before he lowers his lids. "I dunno, I want the pen." Tok huffs, “Well, Leonidas broke the door off, which was so cool by the way, but then Mr. Summers was all-“ They stand up straighter, then cover their eyes with a hand to mimic the his glasses, “You could’ve hurt someone.” They mimic Scott’s voice in a not too bad impression, and remove the hand, “And then we had to fix the door-Well Leonidas did. But we almost had it!” They groan at Roscoe’s secrecy, “But no one will tell me what’s in this room! Mr. Summers said it was actually safe and all that but c’mon why’s it so secret? Just makes me wanna see it more.” Tok’s eyes narrow on Roscoe one more time, ears pinned back in focus, before locking back down on the table. They hesitate, then shrug, “…Alright. If you say so. He’s got lotsa fancy shit, I’m sure he won’t mind if I borrow one fancy pen.” Tok winks. Roscoe pulls his mouth into a small, buck-toothed grin -- "Hah, yeah, Leonidas does that," he says, adjusting his grip on his mallet. Even with his eyes lowered it's not too difficult to see him tracing the puck's movement as it inches closer to the center of the table. "I told you, it's just an empty room," he says. "The hangar is way better." As soon as the puck touches the center line he lunges low across the table to -- actually he just baps it lightly at Tok, like he's giving them a freebie. "Maybe. That pen probably cost like a hundred bucks," is his guesstimate. Tok’s hand has, inevitably, distractedly, drifted off the mallet, sharp fingers spread out wide to feel the air from the table against their palm, “Wait, what’s in the hang-oh shit!” They scramble to grab the mallet again when Roscoe lunges forward, and manage to gently bap the puck back at him just in time before the slow moving puck very nearly scored in their goal. “A hundred bucks for a pen? What’s he need a pen like that for?” Tok bounces where they stand, pupils narrowed to slits as they track the puck. “What would you do if you had that kinda cash?” "The jet," says Roscoe nonchalantly. Now he is playing for real -- as the puck sails back toward him he knocks it forcefully off the wall back at Tok. "What does anybody need a pen for," he says, as though this is a very rich philosophical question. The actual hypothetical stumps him -- he opens his mouth, then closes it again, frowning, then says, "I dunno. Airpods?" Tok perks up, “Jet!? I’d buy the jet!” They clumsily hit at the puck. It does the thing where it ricochets off the walls and comes right back to them, almost scoring it in their own goal before they quickly shove it away back towards Roscoe in time. It’s probably becoming increasing clear the bet won’t last very long. Despite Tok’s impending doom, they’ve begun giggling excitedly, tail darting back and forth faster like a cat about to pounce on something. “Hey depending on the pen you can draw cool tattoos on yourself. It’ll match your new…uh…cool guy hair! You dye that yourself while you were home?” They ask without looking up. Roscoe bats the puck straight back -- no ricochet -- with a short swipe and blows a rude raspberry. "The jet is probably more like a hundred mil," he says with authority, like he's a fighter jet expert. In contrast to Tok he is very zen, his hand very still on the mallet, eyes still on the table. He wrinkles his nose in a pinchy frown, tilting his head, but -- breezing past this tattoo idea -- "It wasn't that hard. My sister helped me get the back where I can't see." He tilts his head the other way -- "You like tattoos? What would you tattoo on yourself." “Damn. There goes my short lived jet owning dreams.” Tok says dramatically, and baps the puck back, starting to get the hang of it, “I’d get a shark tattoo.” They say instantly, “And when I flex my massive muscles it would look like it’s swimming. One of my uncles had a tattoo like that—not a shark but one that looked like it moved when he did.” Tok glances up, only briefly, “What about you?” "Uh-huh," says Roscoe, "maybe get the massive muscles first." He is quiet for a moment, thinking, but rather than giving any tattoo ideas what he says is, "My mom doesn't like tattoos." Tok grins, “Ma said I’m gonna be 6’5” one day, just you wait.” They lean sharply over the table to hit the puck, nearly losing their balance but their tail wraps around the table leg and keeps them upright, “That sucks! You close with your family?” They ask, “Are they chill with your whole…” Tok quiets, thinking better for once and glancing around—almost missing the puck again— before speaking, “Uh. Y’know. Your spying thing.” "Your ma lied to you," says Roscoe at once -- is this psychological warfare? Maybe; he follows this up with a much more forceful jab at the puck, sending it spinning high-speed back at Tok. His face pulls into a slightly piqued frown again, all his features pinching inward, until -- sort of abruptly -- he puffs out a breath and his expression drops back to 'nonchalant'. "Comparatively. Depends on your definition of 'close'. Or 'chill'. I mean. When they found out they were sort of. Dealing with a lot of other stuff." He rockets the puck off both walls with this hit. "You ask a lot of questions." Tok gasps, “She would never-!” The puck sails past their mallet and the table lights up as Roscoe scores in their goal. Tok groans, and slumps dramatically against the table, “Expect one fancy pen coming your way.” They push themself back up and toss a puck back on the table, now much less concerned with the bet now out of the way. “Anyways, how am I supposed to know anything about you if I don’t ask questions.” They hit the puck, “Does it bother you? That I ask a lot of questions? Are these questions bothering you?” They grin. Roscoe politely keeps his crowing to a single "Ha!" He's still playing to win the game, though the bet is in the bag now; his posture has not eased at all even if he's still keeping his face very straight. His eyes dart up to give Tok a squinty considering look, then drop down again. "How did you find out your --" he makes a weird, spasming upper body gesture-shrug, though he keeps his hand firmly planted on his mallet. "Thing." Tok snorts at the gesture, “It helped I came out with the ears ‘n tail ‘n eyes, so we knew there was something.” They say, “And then I was fighting with one of my brothers over something—we ain’t actually related related but that didn’t really mean nothin—“ They slam the mallet into the puck so it ricochets in a z-pattern “And FWOOSH! Then I was my brother! Worst hour of my life cause he stinks real bad and I couldn’t escape it—” They tilt their head back and forth, but keep their eyes trained on the puck, “He can’t help that though cause it’s part of his whole Thing—Then from there we just tested a whole bunch!” They finish their ramble with a ta-da motion with their hands, and then quickly returns one back to the mallet. “How’d it go for you?” Roscoe misses the puck; now the score is all tied up. He does not move to return the puck to the table immediately. "Back up," he says. "What do you mean, you were your brother. Did you just -- level up and steal his -- glands?" Tok cheers and gets ready for the puck, then does a double take when they realize Roscoe isn’t putting the puck back on. They stand there frozen, hand still on the puck, eyes darting off to the side and back to him as they replay what Roscoe asked, “Steal his glands? Nah. I just swa…” They cut themself off, their mind finally catching up with their mouth, which promptly closes. They watch Roscoe, and start again, “It’s just part of my thing.” They say cautiously, almost preemptively defensive. “Like uh…like that old Lindsay Lohan movie with the mom and the daughter that swap places? It’s- I don’t do it much. People don’t tend to be…fans…” They cough, awkwardly, “Anyways. How’d it..uh..go for you.” They attempt casually. Roscoe's eyes are blown very wide at Tok, but after a moment he seems to remember himself; he stoops to retrieve the puck from his goal and, when he reaches to slap it back into the center, he is doing a very good impression of someone who totally wasn't thrown by this, eyes lowered once again to the table. "Freaky," is all he says, at length. Another moment goes by before he answers, "Thought I was just imagining things until my eyes started --" he gestures lackadaisically at his face. "I couldn't control them. Real boiling frog thing. Everything about my life got really bad. But really slow. Nobody knew what to do about it. Or me." He shrugs loosely. "-- also did a who-o-ole lot of testing." Tok’s stiffness immediately melts away at Roscoe’s reaction, and their tail kicks back into its usual sway side to side. They lean forwards against the table curiously as they listen to Roscoe explain, “So what, you just couldn’t stop seeing everything?” They bap at the puck, but distractedly, “Are things better for you now?” "I can't see everything at once. I would see some things, at the cost of not seeing other things. Like, I would be taking a math test and suddenly I'm seeing the floor instead of the test. Or the basement, or the sewers, or outer space." Roscoe shoots the puck back, huffs out an amused half-laugh. "Yeah. Things are way better." Tok’s eyes widen and their movement stutters, allowing the puck to sail right past them into their goal when they look up. “Outer space?” They hastily grab the puck, “So you can just…see the stars whenever you want?” They pause as they consider this, and throw the puck back on the table. “Stars are hard to see in the city. I feel like I’d end up spending all my time watching them instead of paying attention to anything.” Roscoe grins, small and fleeting, maybe not at scoring his second point; his free hand is swiping lazily from side to side in front of his goal. "Now I can," he says, though at once he negates this with, "But I see light pollution too. Can't have everything." Tok smiles at Roscoe, and it’s one they can’t hide the awe in, “Damn. That’s still…So cool.” They bap at the puck idly, “You ever been to New Mexico? They got hella stars out there. Or Oklahoma, but just up in the pan handle of it. You’d probably be able to see everything.” They pause, then their smile turns into a grin, “You ever accidentally look through the ceiling and have the sun blind you?” "No, I've never done that." Roscoe is probably lying, suddenly distracted from the game -- the puck rattles into his goal again, though this time it doesn't resurface. He doesn't seem to notice -- he's craning his neck back at the game he wanted in the first place, now newly available. He catches Tok's eye again and tilts his head at the shooter. "-- double or nothing?"