station72 | you wanted someone to hurt you [open]

CHARACTERS: Kavinsky & anyone
WHERE: The Station; Circle Gardens
WHEN: DAY :010.
SUMMARY: Elsewhere, the station turns. Here, Kavinsky gets high.
WARNINGS: Drugs. So many drugs. May update if things get... worse.

[The Circle Gardens are as close as Kavinsky can get to a clearing in a forest, so he's found himself a spot of empty grass to sit on during another day on the good ol' station. It hasn't been that long since he was stripped from planet Earth, but he spent so much of the last few years in a drug haze that all of it-- this moment, and the ones preceding it-- could reasonably be a dream. From dust mote to whistling breeze that isn't a breeze, it's him, whistling. All you have to do is pucker your lips and blow and know exactly where to put your tongue.

Speaking of his tongue, it's tingling. There was a tab on it not long ago. A small strip of an acid hybrid of his favorite make, namely his own. Colors mash together, sometimes into violent neons that have no place amongst the greenery.

He's on a high tier of the garden. He's on a high tier of another variety. And he remembers back when someone kindly shared their moonshine with him.

There's that pied piper voice, temptation on a stick.]

( Wanna come over? )

[A mental call with no set destination. It zigzags, pingpongs, hits then bounces and keeps on coming. Anyone could come and visit with him. He has a little bit of everything (with all his free time, he's been sleeping, creating, God-like).

Forever ago, on a balcony, a witch told him not to fuck around with this stuff so much. He'd affect all of them.

The problem with that warning is it didn't do a thing to turn Kavinsky's path.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ After everything that'd gone down with Shiro, and then with Pidge and Aoba, Sam's... not exactly angry, not anymore, just frustrated. With himself, with Pidge, with the situation. He'd needed something to distance himself from it all, and flying is the best distraction he knows.

So he's heading towards the training area with his wingpack when he gets the call, and of course he recognizes that mental voice. Kavinsky, damn that kid's got some shitty coping mechanisms. But there's a hum of agreement before Sam even consciously thinks about it, flowing out across their mental connection. It's not in Sam to leave him alone like that, even if there are others in the Nest who might answer the call.

Especially because there are others in the Nest who might answer the call.

He changes course and heads for the gardens instead, following Kavinsky's mental signature in a way that's starting to become familiar. When he spots him on a high tier of the garden - Sam flicks his wings open and flies up, hovering in front of him. ]

Celebrating or drowning your sorrows?

Wingman.

[There was nothing but a firm, smug sensation of comfort when he sensed Sam on his way. He should've known he'd prove to be a fun constant the first time they met in that shitty junkyard. What a way to be introduced. Since then, it's been trash experience after trash experience, but none of them left him feeling empty or bored. High praise from someone always seeking the next thrill. Bigger crashes. Louder detonations. They definitely aren't healthy coping mechanisms, but at least he has enough common sense: Kavinsky has yet to start any fires on the station itself.]

I made you something. Catch.

[Because he's been carrying it with him since he made it a couple nights ago. Soon as he knew Sam was on his way, he found the pocket he'd tucked the present into. Now it's in his hand. Now it's in the arm, thrown underhand for an easy catch.

A pair of sunglasses. Just as flashy as one might expect-- silver framed with reflective lenses.]

[ It doesn't surprise him that Kavinsky doesn't actually answer that question.

It does surprise him that the kid throws something at him, though, and for the moment he's distracted from following up on it by catching it. And then he laughs when he sees the shades, bright and amused. All right, yeah, effectively distracted - and maybe starting to get a little bit of bleed over from the mental link - as he puts the sunglasses on. ]

Charmer. What d'you mean you made these?

I dreamed them.

[The mental bond makes secret spilling inevitable, so Kavinsky has decided to be specific as to what he guards and what he shares.

The circumstances around the death of his father? Confidential, locked up tight and buried. He does not contemplate them so that inquiring minds have no reason to stumble over the corpse and start screaming, asking questions, spewing accusations.

Dreaming? That can be told, easy as letting someone know you plan to sing at the school talent show. Everyone here has a power given to them by the symbiote, or they came with one, or--like K--they've been working with both. He doesn't have to be concerned with being strapped down to a table and made to dream up trinkets for the hometeam.

He is the hometeam. They're so lucky to have him.

He kicks his legs out. Lets them swing back, driven mostly by gravity.]

You look like a douchebag.

Edited 2017-04-17 02:27 (UTC)

No shit? Dude, that's pretty awesome.

[ He pulls the glasses off to look at them more closely, and puts them back on with a wide smile, teeth flashing, when Kavinsky tells him he looks like a douchebag. ]

You caught me. Maybe that's my secret.

[ Sam flies up a few extra feet and kills the jets to his pack. His wings beat for a moment, long enough for him to whirl around, then he wraps them around himself and drops down to sit next to Kavinsky on the ledge. ]

So what, your dreams become real?

[The thing about Sam is that by all accounts, Kavinsky should have marked him as a threat. After the man held him sky-hostage, sprouting bullshit about his worth, there were a few days in which K wanted nothing to do with him.

Then he dreamt the glasses. He has no good excuse--not like he's forgotten or forgiven Sam for sticking his nose where it didn't belong. On paper, Kavinsky would argue the rest of his brood determined Sam's continued importance. In what little privacy he has left, Kavinsky just did what he always does: whatever he wants.]

No, that's stupid. Don't think of it like that. I find what I want in the dream and take it out with me. It's like going to someone else's house but all your shit is there and the security system's not worth a dime.

[ Sam takes being called stupid in stride, snorting quietly as he pulls the sunglasses off to look more closely at them.

It hadn't escaped his notice that Kavinsky'd wanted nothing to do with him for a bit, but Sam's pretty damn sure that the reason he pissed the kid off so much is because he'd gotten Kavinsky's number, because he'd called him on it.

But that's not what he's here for now. Sam's got no intention of pushing every time he sees him, and for now he just leans back. ]

Like I said, pretty awesome. Have you always been able to do that?

[Where he comes from, there are few dreamers, and fewer true dreamers. Lynch was a fool for not sniffing out his scent all over Cabeswater. Kavinsky could only ever be a thief, his lot in life from mobster birth to current alien-napped anti-hero. He wasn't born with the gift; the traits he inherited from his parents are viciousness and selfishness and unhealthy charisma.

The answer, in that case, is:]

Not always.

[But that doesn't make him any less powerful than Sam's wildest assumptions. It doesn't have to be his dream for him to ravish it.]

I'm not keeping it on the down-low, but I don't need everyone asking me for stuff.

[It's not a secret, but if Sam could refrain from talking it up, Kavinsky's appreciation would be notable.]

you wanted someone to hurt you [open]

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