[Kavinsky's become a creature that's more feeling than anything else. Sight's been lost, there's nothing to taste but his own spit, and forget touching. Smelling. Hearing. Every sense has to be shut down in the dark, absurdly small shuttle he's stuck inside of. All that's left is the new, sixth sense, and there aren't dead people, but living coming for him. More of his brood. A family without a choice. There's a siren song to his dilemma, and they're all on their way. For once, he can be patient, though his fingers twitch and his eyelids flutter. Kavinsky was built to move and move and never stop, his key turned a thousand times so he can't help himself. The only time he stills is in sleep, but his dreams remain active.
He's a growing boy. He's got a lot on his mind.
The door opens and it's one of them. A blond, though hardly the bleached out kind that show up at Kavinsky's parties. This guy looks like he may have never gone to a party in his life.
But he's a cyborg, so that counts for something. His hand matches Kavinsky's gun in the dim light.
The gun is set down so he can grip the hand and pull up.]
no subject
He's a growing boy. He's got a lot on his mind.
The door opens and it's one of them. A blond, though hardly the bleached out kind that show up at Kavinsky's parties. This guy looks like he may have never gone to a party in his life.
But he's a cyborg, so that counts for something. His hand matches Kavinsky's gun in the dim light.
The gun is set down so he can grip the hand and pull up.]
No offense, but your house smells like shit.
[Scent has suddenly begun to matter again.]