[Elliot's intriguing for the exact reasons most would find him dull or overly suspicious.
He doesn't ask enough questions. He hasn't pressed Kavinsky for more than a cursory amount of explanation. And that's explainable on a surface level--he's a junkie looking for a fix, as single-minded as any dedicated cokehead Kavinsky's ever dealt for. Hell, he's one of them, and when he's jonesing for a fix, he loses sight of the big picture, too.
Except maybe this isn't about missing the forest for the trees, it's more like tuning a radio to the frequency just below where the music's playing. White noise spits out, fuzzing over half the lyrics.
Cool.
Kavinsky knocks himself out. He does it with a pill he hid in one of the many folds of his robes; this one's black. It works immediately, and he slumps in the opposite corner of the tent, dead to the world in a matter of seconds.
Aware in the dream.
He gets to work.
What does he need? Morphine, no hangover.
He doesn't have to worry about it being too addictive, since this man already has the need coiled in his chest. After one hit, he'll want more, so give him two. Three, maybe. Three red pills, and instead of an M, etch J followed by K.
Shit, maybe he wants to inject it. Too bad.
It's more than fifteen minutes, but not by much. Kavinsky wakes with a gasp, with a start, and he thumps his fist against his chest like he means to restart his heart. In his fist a bottle, and in the bottle four red pills all reading JK.
The number isn't wrong, he'd wanted one for himself.]
no subject
He doesn't ask enough questions. He hasn't pressed Kavinsky for more than a cursory amount of explanation. And that's explainable on a surface level--he's a junkie looking for a fix, as single-minded as any dedicated cokehead Kavinsky's ever dealt for. Hell, he's one of them, and when he's jonesing for a fix, he loses sight of the big picture, too.
Except maybe this isn't about missing the forest for the trees, it's more like tuning a radio to the frequency just below where the music's playing. White noise spits out, fuzzing over half the lyrics.
Cool.
Kavinsky knocks himself out. He does it with a pill he hid in one of the many folds of his robes; this one's black. It works immediately, and he slumps in the opposite corner of the tent, dead to the world in a matter of seconds.
Aware in the dream.
He gets to work.
What does he need? Morphine, no hangover.
He doesn't have to worry about it being too addictive, since this man already has the need coiled in his chest. After one hit, he'll want more, so give him two. Three, maybe. Three red pills, and instead of an M, etch J followed by K.
Shit, maybe he wants to inject it. Too bad.
It's more than fifteen minutes, but not by much. Kavinsky wakes with a gasp, with a start, and he thumps his fist against his chest like he means to restart his heart. In his fist a bottle, and in the bottle four red pills all reading JK.
The number isn't wrong, he'd wanted one for himself.]
Got it.