Stepping into his sitting room after a long with a much needed scotch, the last thing Harry expects is to run into the back of his sofa, painfully ramming his knee into a post. He manages not to spill the drink but his tired, aching bones protest with a sharp angry throb up and down his leg.
“What’s all this?” Harry asks through gritted teeth, glaring down at the couch as if it moved itself.
Eggsy holds up a hand to silence Harry, not breaking his rhythm, not even turning to look at him, his concentration on the TV before him, where there is an animated character doing the exact same as Eggsy, blaring out a vaguely familiar song that Harry might know, maybe. Eggsy’s doing, what appears to Harry, some kind of mutilated, one-man quickstep though with a lot less moving around the room and more arm waving than needed. Harry wouldn’t exactly call it dancing, more like a crude ode to it. Whatever it was, it was strangely captivating, mostly because of Eggsy’s intent on doing it with as much vigorous elation and determination as possible.
“Sorry,” Eggsy answers with a huff a minute later, hands on hips and only panting slightly, a dopey grin on his face. He waves his hand absently and the TV goes to a loading screen, replaced by mindless upbeat elevator music. “I needed top scores on Just Dance. Setting a record.”
Harry quirks an eyebrow, stares pointedly at the furniture that’s all been shoved to the walls.
“Oh, that.” Eggsy laughs. He drags his hand across his face, wiping away the delicate sheen of sweat that had built up on his forehead, above his mouth. Harry takes a slow drink of his scotch to hide the twitching of his lips. “Weren’t enough room with the chairs and all that. Had to push them out of the way.”
“Ryan, Jamal and Rox are coming over for some drinks, little bit of friendly competition.” Eggsy winks at Harry, as if letting him in on a big secret, but his home had become the agreed upon gathering place for Eggsy’s friends once he had moved in and it’s not like Harry was complaining, not at all; he knew it was incredibly important to maintain friendships outside of work and home, and he knows Eggsy will thrive with that kind of companionship.
But god help him if it all didn’t make him feel so old.
“And what’s the occasion?” Harry finally maneuvers his way into the room–Eggsy was kind enough to leave a small gap between the sofa and the wall to shimmy through–and comes to stand at Eggsy’s side, looking at the screen as if deciphering code.
Eggsy shrugs. “I dunno, just for fun. Hadn’t seen the boys in awhile. Rox has been in Yemen for the past two weeks.” He seems to consider something before he says, “Jamal’s a bit sweet on Rox, I think. Keeps asking after her. Don’t know how to break it to him she ain’t exactly into blokes. Ryan’s caught on but–well, who knows, really, with them two.”
Harry nods, suddenly feeling even more tired, trying to keep up. He gestures at the TV. “I still don’t know what this is for.”
“Kinect. Dance Central. It’s got a little camera on it, tracks your moves.” Eggsy points at a slim black bar situated beneath the TV stand, a faint blue light emanating from it. It all seems rather sinister, somewhat suspect, and Harry’s about to ask after the security where he remembers its just a bloody game. Good god, how old is he, really?
Eggsy’s still explaining his minor existential crisis: “So, you follow what’s going on up on the telly, copy the moves–and victory.” Eggsy’s waves his arms as if doing magic, his grin part delighted, part sheepish.
“Ah,” Harry says because, well, it’s all rather simple and he doesn’t have much else in the way of commentary.
Or, so he tells himself.
Eggsy isn’t a spy for nothing.
“Wanna dance?” Eggsy offers with the airs of a man who knows exactly what he’s after: mainly, making Harry admit that there are some things he does not know and that he is most definitely not good at.
“Me?” Harry answers coolly. “No. I’ll pass on that offer.” His dancing expertise was limited to ballrooms and galas, sweeping foxtrots and timed waltzes.
“Aw, come on, Harry. It’s not that hard.” Eggsy has a hand on Harry’s hip, thumb through a belt loop, trying to tug him closer. Harry can see the flush on his cheeks, down his neck, his golden skin almost shimmering in the dim lights. Briefly, Harry stops paying attention to anything Eggsy is saying. “Besides, you can dance against someone else. Try beat their score.”
Harry doesn’t budge from his spot but he does give Eggsy an impressed look. “Appealing to my competitive side.”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
There are some things Eggsy did that made Harry feel old. And it’s not often he felt that. He was just vain and proud enough to know he was still in incredibly good shape for a man his age, wasn’t terribly behind on popular culture that he could keep up without stumbling his way through a conversation, and wholly secured with the knowledge that the class of gentleman transcended age and time.
But the way with Eggsy approached every newly presented opportunity, brimming to the edges with excitement and boldness and little in the way of hesitation, made Harry realize how from all the years he has lived, and even with all the breadth of his varied experience, it had only made him entirely complacent with his life. He had made himself invisible limits that he never thought were there until he was faced them. And usually, due to years of living in his own head and, yes, harbouring his own inherent insecurities, he walked away from it.
Eggsy had a peculiar way of making Harry re-evaluate what he had previously taken as undisputed certainty. He could take down a bar of goons in a pub midday without hesitation–but being asked to dance in his own home, to music he found aggravating, with his much younger lover? Well, he thinks it would make anyone hesitate.
But the way Eggsy looks at him, hopeful and encouraging, is like a balm to his frankly fussy ways. It was at times exhilarating and, honestly, distinctly overwhelming.
“Oh, alright,” Harry concedes, an exaggerated roll of his eyes to punctuate his tone. But he loosens his tie, unclipping his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves as he approaches the TV. “Teach me how to play.”
The grin on Eggsy’s face will make his bruised pride and aching knees in the morning completely worth it.
Ok so most people would headcanon that Lance has had dance lessons to learn how to dance. Yet here I am at almost 1 am with my brain going: “what if Lance learned to dance through Just Dance for Xbox Kinect.”
the brotherhood of steel is a formidable military organisation with a streak of zealotry that strikes fear into the heart of wastelanders.
elder maxson doing barbell curls while wearing a jockstrap with a small gym towel around his neck:
"C'mon N' Ride It (The Train)" is a popular dance song performed by Florida group Quad City DJ's in 1995, and released in 1996 as a single from the album Get On Up and Dance. The song is based on a sample of Barry White's 1974 main theme from soundtrack to the film Together Brothers. The song peaked at #3 on the Billboard Hot 100 singles chart. It was ranked the #1 song of 1996 by Village Voice magazine. This song is played at dance clubs quite often. Many remixes were made out of this song including the most famous mix produced by Lenny Bertoldo. The song is used as the theme song for the 1996 Jon Lovitz comedy-crime film High School High, and is also featured as a track in the Xbox 360 Kinect game Dance Central.
So, I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’ll be replying, because the girls I watch usually don’t peek at my phone. They’re currently playing the Just Dance 2017 Xbox Kinect copy I bought them as I type this up. Mostly got the idea to post this because @theayatollahofrpola posted a memo like this the other day for herself. So, thanks for the idea! 😄 But, my replies will most likely be delayed.
Why do games with established audiences in one genre change to another genre? For example, why was the multi-player only Shadowrun shooter made when the franchise was famous for being an RPG? Why was there a Star Wars MMO instead of a KOTOR3?
What we’re talking about here is actually all about Intellectual Properties. A lot of gamers will automatically associate certain intellectual properties (IPs) with a specific genre. If I give you titles like Civilization, Street Fighter, Dance Dance Revolution, or Call of Duty, you probably would automatically think about their specific gaming genres because they’re indelibly associated with them. But if I say something like “Star Wars”, would you think the SNES action platformers? Would you think of the arcade game space shooters? The old days of X-wing vs TIE fighter? The Kinect dance game? The Force Unleashed action-adventure games? KOTOR? SWTOR? It becomes a lot more blurry.
What we’re talking about here is the transcendence of an established intellectual property from being strongly paired with a specific game genre into a brand. The Avengers, for example, is a brand. There is an Avengers movie, there are cartoon shows, there are video games, there are comic books, there are action figures, there are t-shirts and lunch boxes. But once upon a time, there was only Avengers the comic book. The Avengers IP was indelibly linked to the comic. Even today there’s a very strong association between the Avengers and comics, but the connection is far, far weaker than it once was.
This works for IPs that start as video games as well. Pokemon has become a brand. The Sims (SimCity, the Sims, SimAnt, etc.) has become a brand. These are no longer associated with just the one game genre anymore, because they have transcended that genre into others. And why would they do that? Because a brand is worth a whole lot more money than just a single genre. Publishers lust after strong brands more than anything, because good brands make lots and lots of money.
So how do you create a brand? You start with a good IP and expand. Under what circumstances would you do that? Here are a few situations that might be conducive to the approval process:
#1. The publisher lacks a presence in a specific genre (and market) it hopes to grow into, but does have a very recognizable IP. So they leverage that IP to take advantage of a built-in audience to help make sales. The hope is to gain a foothold in a new market, and thus spur sales growth.
#2. The development studio wants to do something new after doing a lot of genre X games, and have been prototyping something cool. Or another developer has pitched something that’s pretty cool and could sell. Maybe. The publisher decides to green light the project, but wants to take advantage of an existing IP to help bolster sales and hedge their bets on whether the game will be a commercial success. They take one of their IPs and apply it to the game in order to help boost recognition and sales.
#3. Consumers out there are absolutely nuts over the IP, and they want to buy more. The publisher doesn’t want to leave money on the table, so they want to give these players new products to purchase by making related products that don’t necessarily compete with their existing ones. Doing this simultaneously adds new products for fans to buy, and expands the brands into new arenas.
#4. The publisher has the rights to some IP that is already paid for but isn’t currently being used for anything. They want somebody to try to do something with it and make it valuable again so they shop it around to some developers to try to get a game made. And it might incentivize the few old nostalgia-types who still remember the IP fondly to check out the new product.
As you can see, there are a lot of reasons why publishers will do something with new genres for old IPs. There are plenty of other valid reasons that I didn’t list here as well. Obviously, the track record for doing these things can lead to both success and failure - I’m sure you can think of examples of both. It often comes down to the execution. The IP will get you a certain initial audience. If the game is a sales success, it is more likely to carve out its own niche too. The more successes they have, the stronger (and more valuable) the brand becomes.