WHO: ELECTRO and DAKEN
WHERE: A trendy club that Electro has no business being at.
WHEN: 6/21/11, evening
WARNINGS: A lot of hideousness, for sure. Just look at these song lyrics.
SUMMARY: Two smug douchebags walk into a bar. Write your own punchline, I'm tired.
FORMAT: PARA FOR THIS but then whatever you want.
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I got a lot of money (I don't see no keys in my hands) )
He had no good reason for being here, either. San Diego had his base of operations, his money, his new contacts, and its own clubs, and it was too early to drop in on Selina, even if he was curious about this Tom guy.
And yet, here he was. The land of the costumed vigilantes was a tempting place, even - especially - when they were probably waiting for him to show up and make a wrong move.
Luckily, Daken only made right moves. Maybe on the desperate patrons of the club, if they played their little cards right.
But something else caught his attention first, and it was a scent. Not cologne, not aftershave; nothing designed for the average man or woman's weak sense of smell. Electric, but not electronic. Not a machine, with hot metal and plastic and dust in the mix: it was livelier. And it was sitting at the bar.
Daken took the empty seat next to the guy, ordered himself a straight Hennessy, taking his time. It was never good to seem too interested.
"That's a hell of a tattoo," he said, glancing at the guy.
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"Yeah," he said, sneering mildly as he sipping his shot. "It ain't a starfish, if that's your next question."
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"So you must be one of those - what do they call them - Imports, or whatever." He shook his head. "So stupid. Rugs are imported. People immigrate."
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He took another sip of whiskey and cocked his eyebrow. "I definitely would've remembered."
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He tapped his fingers against his glass. "Daken. You haven't seen me before because I don't live here." He paused. "Too many Avengers."
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He settled a little, the home familiarity making him more less tense, less wary and more appreciative of the conversation and Daken's chiseled cheekbones.
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Perhaps they could swap stories over further drinks. Electro finished his and got another.
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"No one on their side," he said, eying Electro over his glass. Plans and variables and potentialities were running through his head faster than he could sort pros from cons. "So what exactly do you do?"
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"Bet you can guess," he added, licking his upper lip. "Though I can do more than just this." He snapped his fingers, and the music skipped, stopped for a minute, then kicked on again when he snapped again. "Just not here 'less we want a riot."
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He swallowed his cognac. Set his glass down. Shot Electro a calculated glance that lasted a little too long. "I'd be interested to see what else."
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"Either way we could arrange something."
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But maybe it wouldn't matter.
"That depends," he said, pushing past a crowd of bodies to get through the door. He waited until they were outside, and the pounding music gave way to the ever-present background noise of traffic: "If I told you it wouldn't kill me, would you hit me with whatever you have?"
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