Games Of Chance And Flirtation

Posted on Thu Oct 16th, 2025 @ 5:06pm by Desmond Greene & Maeve MacKenna

4,386 words; about a 22 minute read

Mission: Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: The QuarterMaster Arcade - Salem Center
Timeline: Late March 1992 — Saturday, early to late evening

Hot cocoa and good quality baked goods had made their afternoon rather pleasant. But the afternoon had slowly slid into evening. The world beyond the windows of the Grind Stone had turned dark. It had turned to the hour of closing. The girl behind the counter had had to step into Desmond and Maeve's bubble of oblivious happiness and gently inform them that they were closing, and if they please could see their way outside.

Desmond looked around at that request, suddenly realising they were the only patrons left. He apologised profusely for making them be late. This lead to the girl laughing at the man's awkwardness, and saying it was alright. As the girl made her way back to her place behind the counter, Desmond unfolded himself out of the benchseat, very carefully not pushing any furniture. "I don't really want to go home just yet, what about you?"

Maeve glanced up at him, scarf already looped back round her neck, and her smile softened. “I don’t want it to end yet either,” she admitted, voice low. “Feels too soon to go back.”

She nudged his arm with her shoulder as they stepped out into the cool night. “Saw a place down the road on the way in—QuarterMaster Arcade. Looked like it had the glowy screens and all. Pac-Man, pinball, that sort of craic.” Her grin curved a little wider. “Could be fun watchin’ you get trounced by a yellow dot with teeth.”

As they walked, she let her fingers brush his—then slipped her hand into his properly, giving it a small squeeze like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world. “What d’you say? One more round before we call it a night?”

Desmond's large hands carefully enveloped Maeve's, fingers wrapping around her palm. He didn't look down, didn't remark on it. "You think I don't know how to play arcade games?" Desmond layered his voice with deep layers of faux hurt, but grinning widely. "I used to love playing Missile Command. Made me feel all important when I was a kid. Plus you did bring your quarters, right?"

Maeve’s laugh curled warm in her throat. “Brought a whole pocketful, aye. Independent woman of means, remember?” She gave his hand another squeeze, green eyes glinting as she tilted her head up at him. “But tell me, big lad—how d’you even manage those wee joysticks with hands like shovels? Bet Pac-Man doesn’t stand a chance once you’ve smothered the controls.”

She swung their joined hands once, easy and unthinking, before tugging him gently toward the glow of the arcade signs up ahead. “Come on then, let’s see if your heroic defender-of-Missile-Command routine holds up against fruit-chasing dots.”

Her smile softened as she glanced sideways at him. “Either way, reckon tonight’s already a win.”

"I didn't always resemble a tree, you know?" Desmond said with a voice so dry the desert would've been jealous. "Used to be a rather handsome boy, with normal sized hands." Desmond's eyes had drifted away from moving between street and Maeve, instead looking at his gnarled hands. "I used to be able to play the violin, I was pretty good too." His playful tone had drifted into melancholy at that moment of remembrance.

Maeve slowed a little at his words, their joined hands tugging him half a step back with her. She turned, searching his face in the glow of the arcade lights.

“Hey.” Her voice was quiet, steady. “You’re still handsome now. And your hands—” she squeezed them, firm, like to prove a point “—they’re beautiful. Strong. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

She gave a small, lopsided smile, a touch shy but true. “It’s not who you used to be that I like, Des. It’s who you are now. That’s the lad I said yes to.”

With that she nudged his shoulder lightly, trying to ease the weight of the moment. “So quit lookin’ at your hands like they’re a curse. They’re yours. And I’m glad of them.”

Desmond squeezed his hands closed, careful not to crush Maeve's hand in his palm. He then sighed, exhaling some of the sadness that had accompanied him for years. Not nearly everything, but some at least. "They're not a curse." He finally agreed, I've been able to save a bunch of people." His customary smile crept back on his lips, perhaps a little forced. "Plus I got a smoking hot date right now, that needs her butt kicked in Space Invaders."

Maeve's grin went soft and filthy with mischief. “Aye? Well then, mister rescuer—don’t go makin’ excuses. Show me.” She bumped his hip with hers, half a tease, half a dare, and tightened her fingers in his.

“Come on then—if you’re so heroic, start rescuin’ me from boredom.” She tugged him toward the arcade entrance, the glow swallowing them in a wash of neon and joystick hum. Over the din she hooked her free arm through his and murmured, barely audible and somehow earnest, “Don’t be daft about yourself, yeah? I like who you are. Hands and all.”

They stepped into the room of flashing screens — Pac-Man munching, pinballs clacking, Space Invaders waiting — and Maeve let the light and noise take them. She shepherded him to a battered cabinet, dropped a quarter with a theatrical flourish and tapped the start button. “Right. Prepare to be embarrassed by an Irish girl who’s never met a high score she didn’t want.”

Her laugh followed him as the screen blinked to life. The arcade swallowed the rest of the world; their footsteps, their quiet squeezes, the soft collision of two people doing something ordinary and, for a moment, utterly perfect. The lights pulsed, the game began, and the night eased out of focus.

Fifty minutes of slamming buttons, loud beeping, rolling scrollballs, and more quarters than most teenagers see in a month followed. Desmond was sucked up in it all. For those fifty minutes he wasn't the big mutant Dryad, he was just big old Des on a date with the pretty girl. Playing games, talking smack, sneaking glances, and occasionally bumping hips or holding her hand. It was everything he wanted.

The GAME OVER screen on the Pac-Man multiplayer cabinet had him reaching in his pocket. He had brought plenty of cash, and had exchanged quite a bit of it for quarters. What he found were his last two quarters. He looked at them, and then up at Maeve. She looked captivating, his eyes always seemed to find her smile, her freckles, and her little nose. But it was the sparkle in her eyes, the mischief it foretold that kept him looking most. A noise behind her drew his attention away from her, and that's when he knew what he wanted to spend the last two quarters on.

He stood, and stepped towards her. He quickly took her hand and pulled her with him. Pulling her away from the arcade cabinets, beyond the pinballs, and even the concessions. All the way to a corner where it stood, a photobooth. Desmond turned around and grinned, "Want to take some pictures?"

Maeve blinked as she was tugged along, laughing under her breath as they wove through the maze of flickering machines and bleating sound effects. “Photos?” she echoed, a brow arched and her grin tilting wide. “What, you plannin’ on immortalisin’ your defeat? Frame it over the mantelpiece—‘Here lies Desmond Greene, slain by Pac-Man’?”

But when she saw where he was leading her—the old photobooth tucked away in the corner, its curtain half frayed and lightbulb buzzing—her teasing softened. The idea was daft and sweet in equal measure, and the way he was looking at her made her stomach do that ridiculous flip again.

She bumped his arm with her shoulder, still smiling. “Alright, alright. But if my hair looks like a haystack in one of these, I’m blamin’ you, not the machine.”

Maeve tugged the curtain open and peered into the booth, brow arched. “You’ve got to be kiddin’ me,” she said, glancing up at him. “You’re not fittin’ in there, Des. Not unless you fancy bendin’ yourself like a pretzel.”

But the grin tugging at her mouth betrayed her amusement. “Alright, fine, you go first then. I’ll figure it out.”

He ducked inside, and she followed — except there wasn’t really room for following. With a soft laugh, Maeve hesitated for a heartbeat, then muttered under her breath, “Well, here goes nothin’,” and slipped in after him. The only way to fit was to perch carefully on his lap.

Her back pressed against his chest, his arms resting along either side of her, warm and steady. The booth was so small she could feel every breath he took. “Christ,” she said with a nervous laugh, trying not to move too much, “if this thing collapses, we’re goin’ down together.”

The red light flicked on above the lens.

“Ready? Three… two…”

Click. The first photo caught her half-laughing, trying to sit properly without elbowing him in the ribs, her hair a wild halo in the cramped light.

“Next!”

Click.. The second found her throwing a crooked grin over her shoulder, eyes bright with mischief. “Smile, big lad,” she teased, “you’re the one volunteered for this.”

“Next!”

Click.. The third captured her laughing in earnest now, a sound caught between delight and disbelief, head tipping back just enough that a curl brushed his jaw.

By the fourth frame, the laughter had softened. The space between them wasn’t funny anymore — it was something else entirely. Her hand rested lightly on his arm without her realising, his warmth seeping through the sleeve of her jumper. Her breath slowed to match his.

“Last shot in three…”

Maeve’s heart thudded once, hard. The world outside blurred — no arcade noise, no clatter, just the pulse in her ears and the hum of the machine. She could feel him beneath her, solid and calm, and when she turned her head slightly, the edge of his profile caught the faint red glow. Her chest tightened.

“Two…”

It would be so easy to stay just like this.

“One…”

Before the thought could fade, Maeve leaned up — quick, sure, her hand brushing his shoulder for balance — and kissed him.

Click.

The flash froze the moment in white: her curls falling forward, her lips pressed to his, a quiet, fearless spark in the dark. For a breath, everything stopped. No nerves, no second-guessing — just the warmth of him, the rush in her veins, and the dizzy realisation that she didn’t want the night to end.

When the light faded, she stayed still a second longer than she should have, her heartbeat racing in her throat. Then she pulled back slightly, blinking as if remembering where she was, the smallest smile curling her lips.

Her voice was soft when it came, barely above the hum of the booth. “Well,” she murmured, cheeks flushed pink, “that one’s definitely not for public display.”

A pause, then quieter still — “But… I think it’s my favourite.”

Desmond was tongue tied, twisted around, head spinning, brain derailed, and his cassette tape was unspooled. In summary, there were very few thoughts in Desmond's mind. Her warmth against him, his arms finding comfortable perches around her waist. Her hair tickling his nose.

The thoughts in his mind were, in no particular order. 'She's so soft. She smells so nice. She tastes of chocolate and ci...' And then blank. His body had luckily reacted appropriately. He had tightened his grip around her waist, squeezing her against him. He had answered her kiss enthusiastically.

So Desmond could only really nod in agreement as she whispered her preference. He couldn't help himself but press a kiss in her mess of curls. He was the type to give a lot of physical affection, always had been, ever since he was a little boy. And with her kiss, he felt he had permission to do so.

"That's one hell of a shot." He whispered as he loosened his grip. "Want to grab it, and maybe some fries before we head home?"

Maeve stayed where she was for a heartbeat after he spoke, her breath still catching up with her pulse. Her cheeks burned pleasantly, and she tried to convince herself it was from the heat of the booth and not the way his arms had felt around her.

When his voice came — low, rough, and still a little stunned — she looked up at him, a laugh slipping out before she could stop it. “One hell of a shot, aye,” she echoed, voice soft but teasing. “Dunno if the camera’ll ever recover.”

She slid off his lap carefully, boots finding the floor again, though her knees didn’t quite trust her yet. Tugging the curtain aside, she reached for the slot where the photo strip was printing, the whir of the machine filling the moment between them. The paper curled into her fingers — six little windows of what had just been, all grins and laughter until that last one, where her lips were still pressed to his.

Her smile went small but real. “Suppose we’ve proof now,” she murmured, holding it up so he could see. “Can’t deny it even if we wanted to.”

Then she folded the strip gently and tucked it into her pocket, patting it once like a secret. “Chips sound perfect,” she said, grin tugging wider. “But you’re payin’—I spent all my quarters provin’ I could beat you at Pac-Man.”

She hooked her hand lightly into the crook of his arm as they stepped out into the cool night, the neon glow chasing them from behind. “Come on then, hero. I’ll even share me red sauce—maybe.”

The fresh night washed away the last wobbles out of Desmond's legs. It wasn't able to blow away any of the butterflies in his stomach though. With Maeve on his arm, Desmond felt confident, attractive even. He saw some eyes turning as they walked out of the QuarterMaster, and towards a small diner. But few of these eyes were on him, most were on Maeve. One young man got elbowed by the girl he was with as she noticed what he was looking at. Desmond's grin grew a little wider at that.

The small diner was a popular spot for people going about on a Saturday evening. It even had a drive-by/walk-by window for people to order to-go snacks. Desmond and Maeve walked up to it. The order window was a little low for Desmond, so while bending down he ordered a big bag of fries and a few cups of ketchup. The pimply faced teenager looked bored as he took down the order, not even looking at the people at his window. "Pickup next window. Should be done in a minute. Number 772."

"772, got it." Desmond rumbled good naturedly as he paid the couple dollars for the snack. "Man, can you imagine how busy they are if they're up in the 700's." The big guy said to Maeve.

Maeve leaned against the counter beside him, scarf tugged close as the fryer hissed somewhere inside. “Aye, or maybe they just start at seven hundred to look popular,” she said with a grin that tilted soft at the edges. “Bit of false advertising never hurt a chip shop.”

She bumped his elbow gently, eyes catching his in the diner’s warm light. “Still, I’m not complainin’. Hot chips, good company… that’s a pretty decent end to a day, yeah?”

Her smile lingered for a moment before it eased into something quieter, more honest. “It’s been—” she hesitated, a rare flicker of shyness crossing her face “—nice, Des. Just… simple and real. Haven’t had a night feel like this in a long time.”

The fryer bell dinged somewhere behind the counter, jolting her from the moment. She laughed under her breath and straightened up, the colour high in her cheeks. “C’mon, before they burn ours. And fair warnin’—I don’t share chips easy, so you’d best be quick.”

"772!" The guy at the window shouted just as the couple stepped up. Desmond accepted the the open cardboard box. It had a massive portion of deep-fried potato in it, together with a rather healthy helping of ketchup. "Thanks." Desmond said before stepping away.

He held the box up high out of Maeve's reach as he started in on the fries. They were crispy gold and crunch. "These are really gooooood." He drew the word out as he stepped away, faking a moan as he took another bite.

Maeve tilted her head back, watching the box go higher, and let out a loud scoff. “Ah, you’re deadly, so you are. Big lad with long arms showin’ off—real fair, that.”

She went up on her toes anyway, fingers brushing the air well short of her goal. “Go on, keep laughin’,” she warned, voice full of cheek. “See how funny it is when the ground trips you up.”

The gravel at her feet gave a tiny twitch, one or two bits lifting a breath off the ground before she let them drop again. “Aye, thought so,” she added with a smirk. “You’re lucky I’m not feelin’ petty tonight.”

She nudged his elbow with her shoulder. “Now be nice and give us a chip before I die of starvation, yeah?”

"Not feeling petty, but looking really pretty." Desmond said as he offered her the box to his date. He dipped a fry in ketchup and offered it to her. "Better eat some before I grab them all. I still have some growing to do, unlike someone I might know..." His cheek was pronounced in his tone and in his wide grin and sparkling eyes.

Maeve’s jaw dropped in exaggerated offence, though the corners of her mouth were already fighting a grin. “Oh, cheek of you,” she said, swatting lightly at his arm. “You’re already half a bloody forest—how much taller d’you need to get? I’ll need a step-ladder just to talk to you.”

Still, she leaned in and took the offered chip, biting it clean from his fingers before he could move away. “Mm—worth it,” she mumbled around the mouthful, eyes glinting with mischief. “Alright, fine, you’re forgiven. You feed me, you can make all the short jokes you want.”

She licked a trace of salt from her thumb and looked up at him with that half-smile that never quite reached both sides of her mouth. “And for the record, I’m not that short—you’re just unreasonably tall. There’s a difference, big lad.”

A small pause, then softer, almost under her breath: “Still… kinda like it though.”

"What's that?" He asked after grabbing a few fries drenched in ketchup. "I can't quite hear you from down there." Desmond gently bumped his hip against her. "You like them big and tall?" His grin was smug and his eyes sparkled with mischief. "You want to climb this tree, and see what's at the top?"

Maeve’s grin curled slow, something fierce and daring sparking behind it. He was still wearing that smug look — the one that made her want to laugh and hit him in equal measure. And maybe… maybe shut him up properly.

“Y’know what?” she said, voice low and sweet as honey, “Think I will climb this tree.”

Before he could fire back another joke, the gravel around her boots lifted — soft, barely-there at first, then swirling gently like caught in a private breeze. The air shimmered faintly under her control, a ripple of power that lifted her just enough that her boots left the ground.

Desmond blinked, startled, as Maeve rose up level with him, the soft light catching the wild tumble of her curls. “Told you I could,” she whispered — and before he could so much as breathe, she caught his collar and kissed him.

It wasn’t shy, not this time. It was bold and dizzy and teenage — the kind of kiss that burned hot and reckless, that made the rest of the world blur into the sound of her heartbeat and the faint hum of her power keeping her aloft.

When she finally pulled back, her breath hitched, a flush painting her cheeks. She hovered there just long enough to smirk and pluck the bag of chips right out of his hand.

Then she let her power ease, boots touching back down on the pavement as she held the box close to her chest. “Told you I’d reach the top,” she said, grin wicked and triumphant. “Now—” she popped a chip in her mouth, eyes sparkling “—maybe next time you’ll keep your mouth shut, big lad.”

Desmond took a moment to catch his breath and gather his mind. Then he grinned wickedly. While keeping pace he suddenly stepped in deeper, lowing himself. With incredible ease his free arm grabbed Maeve by the thighs, lifting her up so she was more on eye-level now. Between her small frame and his superstrength it took no effort to hold her.

"Now why would I ever keep my mouth shut if the price I'm paying is a kiss like that?" He asked as he leant forward, his lips finding hers and cutting off her witty remark.

Maeve’s breath caught in her throat as his arm swept beneath her legs and the world tilted. Her boots left the ground before she had time to protest. “Des—” she started, half laughing, half ready to scold him for showing off—

—but the rest of her sentence vanished when his mouth found hers.

The kiss hit her like a spark to dry tinder. For a heartbeat her thoughts scattered, gone in the rush of warmth and the feel of his hands steady beneath her. The world outside the two of them just—dropped away. Arcade noise, the hum of traffic, even the smell of salt and fried food all blurred into nothing. There was only heat and heartbeat and the dizzying certainty that she didn’t want him to stop.

The box of chips slipped from her grasp, forgotten, clattering softly against the pavement as her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders. Her body responded before her mind could catch up — closer, steadier, as if afraid the moment might dissolve if she let go.

And then the air itself stirred. It was subtle at first — a tremor through the ground, the soft scrape of grit lifting around their feet. The tiniest pebbles on the pavement rose and spun, caught in the same pull that had stolen her composure. For a breath, they were weightless together — their bodies hovering just above the earth, the world holding its breath with them.

When the kiss finally broke, Maeve drew in air like she’d forgotten how. Her curls framed her flushed face, eyes wide and bright with disbelief and something she couldn’t quite name as they lightly dropped to the ground.

She laughed then — soft, breathless, a little stunned. “Well,” she murmured, voice low and unsteady, “that’s one way to shut me up.”

Her gaze flicked from his lips back to his eyes, a teasing spark cutting through the haze. “Though if you keep that up, big lad,” she added, a crooked grin finding its way back to her mouth, “I might forget how to talk altogether.”

"How about we find the car, and head home?" Desmond murmured against her lips before pecking at them again. "I think we're attracting some attention." Another peck followed that sentiment. "And while I'm not shy, I'm also no stage act." He pecked her a last time before leaning back and grinning. "Sound like a plan?"

Maeve still felt him in her pulse, the world not quite righted yet. His words brushed her lips between those feather-light pecks, and by the third she was laughing softly, breath catching.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured, voice low and unsteady but fond.

When he drew back, she looked past his shoulder and caught the curious glances from a couple walking by. Heat rose to her face again and she ducked her head with a grin. “Alright, fair—before we start sellin’ tickets.”

She bent to rescue the battered chip box, holding it up mournfully. “Fallen in the line of duty,” she said, the humour steadying her voice. Then she slipped her hand back into his, fingers fitting where they belonged.

“C’mon, big lad. Let’s go before someone decides we’re loiterin’.”
As they started toward the parking lot, she brushed her thumb over his knuckles, a small, private motion.

The night air cooled her cheeks as they walked, the neon hum fading behind them. For once she didn’t fill the silence; she just let it stretch between them, warm and easy, like the echo of something that had finally found its place.

The drive back back went faster than a drive down. At every red light or stop sign Desmond couldn't help but to press his lips on Maeve. Top of her head, her cheek, her nose, but most of all her lips. He had some problems keeping his attention on the road as he should have. But in the end they made it back safe.

With great effort Desmond and Maeve sneaked back in front the garage. It was late, and for as far either of them could see everyone was asleep. His hand had held her the moment they got out of the car. So when Desmond headed to his bedroom, he didn't let go of her hand. And she did not let go of his either. Instead she came closer, much closer.

Desmond opened his door and quickly pulled Maeve through. He did not even bother with the light switch as he pushed the door closed and took his shirt off.

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