#o: m.moss

[reidhalstead]

For: @retrospectral

Some evenings, Reid wants to stay isolated in the shitpit of an apartment and rot there until a miracle happens. On other nights, he just needs the nightly air to remind him that he's still breathing (by most accounts).

He's sure a fucking therapist, or shrink would tell him that he's not the bad things that happen to him, but in this particular case, he is.

It comes with all the complexities, and growing pains he would rather never acknowledge. And now a gone forty is emanating teenage rebellion, in the way that he's sat on a bench, head ducked low beneath a hood and staring at the neon colours of retrocity.

Staring at shiny lights, and bright colours is almost distracting enough to pull off the lie that he prefers to be alone.

And yet, the jarring movement of some punk kid kicking the machine right by the entrance has Reid's stare stolen. A woman with a stern face, and an even kinder chide exchanging words with the boy. He can hear it, and he can hear the rude attitude the youth gives.

Some unsavoury words are thrown her way; derogatory, mostly.

Halstead doesn't like the disrespect— nor does he simply enjoy watching when his jaw ticks in irritation. If it isn't the location and those that fill it, it's kids. Reid's always been raised on discipline, and he's never had an issue with it, really. He's crossed the street, nudged the hood back off his face and is through the public doors of the arcade. By the time he's inside and turning his head towards the kid, they're stomping out of the place. Door slam included.

The cabinet he'd been kicking has caved in. Halstead grimaces at the sight, and the attendant — or manager, whoever's been sent to deal with it sighs.

"You okay?" Reid asks, shunting down any irritation he'd allow to surface. He gestures towards the busted-up machine with a head nod: "It still work, or is it dead to us?" a beat; he engages the little humour he's ever capable of: "Maybe it's just a sign that it's time to switch out Bubble Bobble to R-Type?" Maybe it'll change her clientele, too.

[reidhalstead]

He's watching the kids — counting down the seconds til one of them ragequits altogether. His gaze flickers only briefly over to Morgan when she strolls into the nest of youths. Reid keeps a distance. From their previous run of unsupervised children, he's got more assurance that Morgan doesn't need a hand.

But he's there — four kids, versus one. Seems kinda unbalanced if it came to it.

Shoving down the wistfulness threatening to contaminate this moment of ordinariness. Reid denies acknowledging that all the stimuli he's locking onto doubles as a distraction. It's his own carefully walked tightrope. Cautionary thoughts that tell him not to look down, for fear of falling.

Morgan's got a way with youths, clearly. He supposes she would have to, to operate an arcade like this. But being witness to it, has a wave of emotions he doesn't need right then escaping their lockbox. In retaliation to his self-conflict, he smirks at her jibe about cameras. Prompted, Reid's gaze flies to the edges of the room, to see what angles she's actually got covered.

She's back in the next moment, beside him. And he's amused by the carefully placed lie that she's planted. "Sounds like a look of footage to sift through —" Way, way too much for one person. But, Reid's demographic of university students might be different to the arcade majority, a kiddish mindset rarely veers too far when stupidity is in play: "—you're going to get kids sitting on the screens next, you know that, right?"

The poor cabinet cleaner.

Reid shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "Anyway, my bad, I shouldn't keep you any longer, you've got plenty to war with in here," it's light and honest and he tips his head towards the cabinet behind them: "Sorry we couldn't save bub."

Morgan manages to smile at his reference to Rampage, even if there's a tightness in her chest all the same. It's just her top row of teeth, which quickly move to chew on her lower lip. She's mostly past the days of crying unexpectedly, but there are moments when something hitches in her breath, her heart one good squeeze away from bruising all over. "Y'know, I'll have to double-check once they get that giant animal problem under control," she says quickly, banishing the emotion back out of her throat.

"Reid," she repeats with a little nod. Morgan's eyes follow his gaze to the Dragon's Lair cabinet. A quarter-killer if there ever was one, and real rage-quit bait. "Hold on a minute."

Morgan goes over to the cabinet and clears her throat. The kid at the console ignores her, but his friends give her a quick glance. She knows what's going to happen here -- the one playing as going to die in the game and blame her for it. "Hey, I'm glad you're getting into it," she begins coolly. "But be careful with the cabinet, okay? Do you know how much one of these things costs?"

"A quarter per play?"

"Yeah, but if you snap that joystick or damage the screen? We're talking over a thousand bucks for repairs, give or take. And you'll go on the worst high score board we've got in this place 'til you pay it all back, m'kay?" She smirks a bit and adds, "We've got cameras in these things too, so don't forget to smile."

The cluster of kids look nervously at each other as their friend at the controller curses his luck. Just as he turns to Morgan she flips a single quarter out of her pocket towards him. "Yeah, yeah, blame me -- you died because you didn't pull your sword fast enough in the Wizard's Room."

Morgan makes her way back over to Reid and sighs. "We don't actually have cameras in the cabinets, but wouldn't that be useful?" She decides not to tell the relative stranger where they do have the security setups angled, though. Just in case.

[reidhalstead]

Brows draw together, he's momentarily thrown off their original tracks when she steers them off course. Reid stifles the mirthful chuckle as he neutralises his features. He doesn't know why it's called that, besides it being a mish-mash of components; like a pie.

But he's finally caught up.

With a shrug, he comments: "Stupid name, I get it." He does, who wouldn't? But all that humour and light-heartedness fizzles away like staling soda. The tone of the conversation wavers from easy jests to more careful ones. Reid realises he's digging; it's a merciless thing, really. His approach.

It's a bowie driven deep, to reopen a wound that hasn't healed.

Bleeding, spilling in the space between them. He's drowning too — in noise and humming, in overstimulation as he grabs the reins of his senses, one by one. Family. Don't. "That's... kind," in amongst the abundance of other things Halstead fails to address. A puff of a chest, filled with stone-still organs is the only indication he's heard her at all. "You double-checked Rampage? City often needs a builder."

He can't find the humour in his tone, it's sombre, even if Morgan's tone isn't. Seven years — seven months, it's an unlucky number here. He cannot deny construction is dangerous, even without monstrous intervention. But Reid's never going to know, it's a random instance — a random woman recounting the details of a tragedy; he's searching for something that there might not be, to chase a life he doesn't have any longer.

"Reid," It falls out by default and he wonders if that is wise to reveal. His eyes slide across to a cabinet where a group are hollering louder than the rest; enthusiastic, cursing at the formidably difficult leveller — there's a creak of a machine leant on too hard. "Not sure how Brad's going to feel if we lose Dragon's Lair tonight, too,"

"Raspberry pie? Please," she laughed. "Kids are sticky enough on their own. Mysteriously so. Seriously, the Lysol expenses in this place are hell." Morgan wasn't kidding about that one, though her tone betrayed any frustration about it. She paused.

"Oh wait, you meant the computer thing, didn't you? I just got that. Sorry, I was... thinking about the -- never mind," Morgan said, tiredly wiping her face. The barcade thing had her thinking about food again.

She nodded and shrugged. Couldn't help the things they loved, mostly. And Morgan was hopelessly in love with her husband and the golden past. So much so that her entire life was a walking monument to it.

"Thanks. We never started a family of our own so we figured a community space was the next best thing," Mo explained. "No, no malfunction. I mean, I've tried seeing if his ghost is trapped inside any of the machines, but no dice. Not even a little cheat in Pacman or something, even for me."

She held her hand out, "I'm Morgan, by the way. Bradley was my husband. It was a... construction accident, about seven months ago."

[reidhalstead]

"Ha." In comedic fashion — Reid glances around the arcade once more to see the younger generations screaming and cheering at an array of cabinets. Security here? Halstead doesn't say he might pass up on that offer but — "You're doing great with the place."

Of the five minutes he's seen of it, that is.

The biggest crime might be the theft of dozens of quarters; they'll clink and rattle on the way out no doubt; slowed by the weight of tainted alloy. He cracks a wider grin, "No raspberry pie's in Retro, huh?" It's a tease, about the emulators. Reid gets it, but he isn't as passionately partial to one way or another.

He likes the games — and lately, childhood nostalgia is something he attempts to cherish and cling to. "Nothing wrong with stubborn, when it's well-intentioned," a casual shrug; a genuine belief. His former cause would fall into that category, too. "We like what we like, sometimes." No shame in that, usually. It's a grey area; controversial to say so callously, but relevant for this particular hobby. He's sooner kicking himself for his remark before he can get another work in about the games.

"Shit, sorry." No euphemism. Freak accident? Many of those are excuses — Halstead's heard a thousand of those and his softened features, turn a little intrusive; curious beyond the ordinary degree of empathy. "Doesn't sound okay. You guys did a neat thing here — " He shouldn't push, but he's battling with both his former, and newer instincts. He tries to be smart about it; talking about engineers prior: "— It didn't involve an arcade-level malfunction then?"

He doesn't make the space invaders joke this time.

"Security, huh? Well, if things get worse or revenue gets better around here, I know who to call," she jokes. For the most part, Retrocity was left alone -- Morgan figures it's because there's not really much worth robbing here, unless there were some very determined miscreants who wanted to go through the trouble of hauling entire arcade cabinets out of the place. Otherwise, the cheap plushes in the claw machines are hardly worth the trouble. The fun is in the chase anyway.

"Yeah, sure, I'll let you know. I'm always searching -- prefer to get vintage preservations when I can before I go the emulator route. Most kids won't know the difference, but I do, y'know? I dunno, maybe that's just me being stubborn, refusing to get with the times."

She's heard it in a number of different ways over the years. Requests for new, better games, or the suggestion to get a liquor license and turn this place into a barcade geared towards the older crowd. Maybe kids were less interested in this type of old school stuff. But also, maybe nothing could satisfy everyone, and so long as it was something Morgan could still be proud of, it'd be enough for now.

"Not a euphemism, no... He passed earlier this year. It was, uh, a freak accident," Morgan shrugs, running a hand through her hair. "But it's... well, it's not okay, but I'm managing. This place was our dream, so it's important to me to keep it running."

[reidhalstead]

Reid laughs at that. Training the youth earlier, as soldiers against Skynet almost seems like a believable little boot camp. Summer school who? Throw in some lessons in respect and they'd never have to worry about another casualty like Bub.

He finds it easy to brush over how he's wandered inside — entirely prepared to assert authority over a mindless, unregulated child. He doesn't say that she hadn't looked like a bad cop even when she'd been all frown lines and tired eyes. But he does toss in mindlessly like he's forgotten for a second what he is — and she hadn't asked: "I work security, so I'm used to miscreant youths." A shrug, as if it would explain his sudden appearance in the arcade.

"But that sucks," Halstead's tone is honest; a tumbling bout of innocence that doesn't suit him. "You ever get R-Type in, or DD, I'll find you a repair guy that'll keep them golden." He isn't sure how, or where he'll find such an individual. But it gives him something to focus on. Something other than the obvious and the ageing memories that fleet through his vision when he catches the distinction —

"Was?" He softens, clearing his throat of jests before he sticks his foot into something he can't take back. He doesn't quite come to the realisation he's practically been boasting about replacing a husband. "... He's not around? Sorry, I guess." My bad? He couldn't have known. "That's not a euphemism, right?"

"Says some old fogeys," Morgan shrugged, her tone still light. Of course she found the argument laughable, and even if it were true, the types of 'video games' stocked at this arcade were hardly the bloodlusty type. She laughed at the stranger's assertion about the pigeons. Man, the streets sure were more interesting these days, weren't they? "True. We'll all need to prepare ourselves for first contact or the day Skynet goes sentient, right? Might as well get them started young."

Morgan brushed her hands off on her pants idly. "Oh, of course. I didn't mean it like... Anyways, thanks for checking in. Never fun to have to play Bad Cop in my own Retrocity," she sighed.

Interesting that he said his kid would have common decency. Like anyone could know how their kid would turn out. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't wondered often what hers and Bradleys children might be like, were they real. Would they have shared the love of gaming and geeking out with their parents? Would they have helped keep Brad and Mo modern enough to not be so stuck in the past? Or would they have hated everything on principle, rejecting mom and dad's old fashioned notions? It was bittersweet, not knowing how things would be, if they weren't the way they were.

But they were. So she can only be the way she already is. No woulda, coulda, shoulda.

"Vintage stuff's getting harder to source. We have more classic cabinets than most, but their CPU systems are getting rough. I've got a good repair guy, but... nothing gold can stay, I guess," Morgan said. "Not even Bubble Bobble... My husband was more of the handyman, of the two of us."

[reidhalstead]

He's watching the machine go through the brief, but effective testing. There's no saving the dent, or the snapped wood. The dinosaur-like face is caved in and distorted against the colourful bubbles adorning the cabinet. Iconic, but less so with a foothole driven into it.

Reid's brows rise, creases form quickly — "Says who?" it's accusatory and partnered with an eye roll. It's all the signs that he's dismissive of the idea. "Watching a pigeon fight on the street makes kids violent," There's bigger fish to fry, Halstead knows. "At least killing aliens is proactive."

In some way. A slip of the tongue — but, harmless to the unsuspecting. Nothing about it makes him appear anything less crazy; most days, he feels like the epitome of insanity; the same thing over and over. Results never change.

Reid scoffs then, shaking himself off the derailing thoughts to draw himself back into the present. Video game; broken cabinet, you walked the hell inside and started this... "Not my kid. Mine would have common decency." Respect; discipline, and the ability to apologise when doing wrong. Or at least, they would have. If that choice hadn't been ripped from him without mercy.

But he doesn't want to think about it. Any of it.

"We already defeated dinosaurs — well, the... outer world did, at least R-Type's a bit tougher. Didn't the 80s cabinets have acrylic — I reckon it'll break the punk's toes before the machine caves." Another disappointed glance is thrown over to Bobble. "Bub over here is only plywood."

Shitty kids were few and far between at Retrocity, thankfully. Morgan had to remind herself that had she and Brad started a family like they wanted, they would have absolutely been dealing with the rebellious teen years right now. In many ways, she was grateful that wasn't the case -- single parenthood sounded like such a drag at the moment. Still, that didn't make the sting of watching someone disrespect the machinery and then turn around and disrespect her hurt any less. Brad wouldn't have let that fly -- to be fair, Morgan didn't either. But it was hard to fight back without anyone to back her up.

So she gave him an ultimatum: pay the hundred plus for the machine repairs or be banned from the arcade. Oh, she hated banning anyone -- but in the long run, whatever quarters the kid would possibly spend in the future didn't even cover a piece of duct tape to slap over the dent in the cabinet wood.

But the night was young and she needed to file that away for later. The world spun on, and the arcade was open for a few more hours. With a grunt, Morgan kneeled down to survey the real damage, genuinely surprised the kid had enough force in his kick to cave the plywood. She checked the coin slot door, tested the buttons, and threw a quarter in to make sure the CPU was still functioning. Mercifully, the damage seemed to be cosmetic only. Still, it would take time to get the wood replaced and the cabinet decals recreated -- if it was even worth it to go the full distance for this one.

"R-Type?" The namedrop surprised her. Morgan hoisted herself to stand with a bit of a smile creeping over her tired countenance as she looked at the man. "What, are you crazy? Haven't you heard that video games make kids violent? If that boy was acting up after a round of Bubble Bobble, how do you think he'd do after getting his ass kicked by Gomander? ...That wasn't your kid, was it?"