Warning #10 || Jack & Daken
@sonofwolverine616 for happy fun smiles and sparkle flowers
Going to meet with friend was one thing – he knew them and was willing to bring them Mar-Vell’s cryptic messages. Going to seek out some sketchy seeming stranger in a sketchy part of town in a sketchy seeming bar? That was something else. Jack Romulus felt like a creep – or a hitman. If he upset the mark too much and the guy came at him, it would be a struggle not to incinerate him, Jack worried. Playing it cool would have to be the name of the game. Of course, playing it cool was pretty much not at all the name of the game for him these days, so he maybe should have tried to come up with a more appropriate motto.
Although it was raining that night, Jack was dry as the desert when he stepped inside the bar. Someone else had just been leaving and he slipped in before the door shut, glad not to have to touch the knob. Even with his gloves on, he still worried that he’d heat doorknobs, hand-rails, and their kind to the point where they’d burn the next person to touch them. It was probably an irrational fear, but all the same, it was there. The last thing Jack wanted to do was hurt anybody. He was good at it, always had been, but that didn’t mean he liked it.
Unfortunately, the scene seemed like it wouldn’t be doing him any favors. The bar was fairly dark, most of the occupants all managed to be drinking alone, and he was pretty damn sure most of them were staring at him the second he walked in – and that none of the stares were friendly.
Jack sighed softly and held his hands out to his sides in a gesture that could either be taken as very friendly or come at me. “This doesn’t need to be a ridiculous action sequence from a B mob flick. Not looking for any trouble, guys. I’m just looking for a guy named Daken. Any takers?”
Daken sat nursing his glass of whiskey. He had found crappy little Jersey dive bar shortly after Zemo had recruited him and he relocated to New York. Now he occasionally came here to drink and brood. The mutant assassin turned as a dark-skinned man entered the bar. He was handsome. Far better looking than anyone else in this joint, with the exception of Daken himself. Everyone else here were washed up drunks and dirty old truckers. He had gotten some negative attention for being a “faggot” and a “pretty boy” when he had first come here, but the other patrons had since learned to leave him alone. The faint blood stains on the scuffed up wooden floorboards reminded them of that. Silence permeated the bar, the only sound being Bon Jovi’s Dead or Alive playing from the juke box on the far wall. The bar’s patrons all glowered at Jack. Jeff, the bartender, continued polishing a glass, cliché that he was. Taking a sip of his drink and setting it down, Daken turned to look at Jack. His legs were spread as wide as the twisted grin on his face. “Who’s asking?” he replied.
