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I eat and drink and spend and fuck and never get my fill [OPEN]

CHARACTERS:

100mitsubishis and whomever
WHERE: the red coast, a cliff along the shore, close-ish to where listle diving would take place
WHEN: Day 26
SUMMARY: old habits die hard or not at all; once again, Joseph Kavinsky has no idea what he's doing here and decides to get high up somewhere... well. High. But feel free to post something else--totally open to wild cards!
WARNINGS: drug usage, allusions to sexual situations in main post, unsavory mental practices, casual misogyny, self-hatred thinly disguised as disgust in others, etc. etc. Kavinsky shit

[It's never been difficult for Kavinsky to find a cliff.

Admittedly, it's usually the metaphorical kind, the sort of edge one can sit at from the comfort of their furnished basement while their mother, drugged to the gills, dozes upstairs. But this time it's the physical kind with a sharp drop down to an alien sea.

There's salt in the ocean here--he can smell it carried up to him by whipping, unruly breezes--like there's salt in the ocean off the eastern coast of the US. He lived in Jersey before he moved to Virginia, both of which had access to the ocean, a great abyss that would stretch out forever to the human eye, but it was a lie, another one of reality's funny little tricks. See, the ocean had its limits, like all things in the waking, material world. He'd heard once, during one of the very few Biology classes he didn't sleep through or ditch, that a person could only see two to three miles out tops, thanks to the curvature of the earth. But even if they could see all the way around, until their gaze slid over their own back, appreciated their own ass, it was still limited.

He's been to multiple planets. He's traveled through the stars. He's met wizards and superheroes and women with secrets worth learning (novel shit, that), and it leaves him empty anyway. An infectious feeling, that he spreads among the other hosts who venture too near to him. He is the plague rat, he is patient zero of a hollowness that gapes and yawns and feeds forever.

That was why the symbiote chose him, and not King Dick or Lynch or their little peasant pet with the bad attitude. It chose the one that wouldn't be satisfied by the sci-fi version of a Thomas Kinkade piece. The view's majestic, it's beautiful, but it's a cliff. And cliffs end shortly, like Kavinsky's attention span or his ability to appreciate nature's beauty.

His old hideout wasn't in the middle of the fucking forest because he wanted to commune with the squirrels. He'd wanted privacy, so he'd found it.

There's no such thing anymore. He's part of a Nest. They're all gonna feel the smack of it when he snorts a line off the slightly trembling back of his own hand. Nobody will realize how kind he is, doing it far away from the bulk of them so that it will only be a trace in their system. Oh no, they don't get that despite himself, he's being forced to keep their best interests in mind.

Blame it on the symbiote. Blame it on his Brood. Blame it on the al-al-al-alcohol.

He almost reaches out to Elliot. He nearly calls him over, asks if he needs another hit and what he'd think about sucking dick in the open while the wind jostles their robes, but something about asking for attention feels too much like admitting need.

Kavinsky has no needs he can't satisfy. Only cravings. Like cliffs, they end.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The ocean's the wrong color.

But when Joshua doesn't want to think about - everything, that's the least of what's wrong here. Less wrong than being psychically hooked up to a bunch of strangers, definitely. Less wrong than the people, the buildings, and everything else being absolutely nothing like what he knows, sure.

The ocean just looks like blood, and blood's the one thing he's never going to get away from.

As such, he's been spending most of his time on the beach, since they landed. His own complexes are poor company, but the least he can do is not inflict them on anybody else. And realizing that somebody else is already up there almost turns him back around, but even if he was hoping for no company, one person is still better than a town full of them, he supposes.

So he doesn't turn around. There's not a ton of space on the cliff, but there's enough for him to keep a small distance as he stakes out a spot to sit, just enough to say I'm cool with ignoring each other if you are. This is fine. ]

[There's not a ton of space, that's right, and Kavinsky wouldn't be toying the edge between a long drop and solid ground if he wanted company. At least, not this type of company that doesn't kiss his boots or scuff them. The non-attention is somehow worse than being suffocated by the presence of someone who won't let him breathe his inhales and exhales all on his own like a big boy. He lasts a couple minutes, staring out at the sea, wanting for wifebeaters and jeans and sunglasses to blot out the brightness of the world.]

( Go get your own hideyhole, man. This one's taken. )

[Kavinsky refrains from turning around or even parting his lips. Those are the actions of a weaker man. Men worry about what's over their shoulder. Gods stare at the horizon.]

[ Non-attention is what Joshua's best at, so as he settles down under a convenient tree, his mental presence...doesn't bat a figurative eyelash. He's got enough on his mind; it's going to take more than that to add to it. ]

( Having company won't kill you. )

[ Said in the most bland manner possible. ]

( Are you company? )

[That seems to Kavinsky to be a perfectly fair question. The guy came out here and took a seat, didn't say a word of greeting. That means he's brooding, too, an action best done alone unless alcohol's involved. Underneath his robes, K's grinning, but it's not from pleasure--not exactly. He can just tell when he's about to a golden opportunity to fuck with someone.]

Edited 2017-12-30 01:41 (UTC)

[ The most non-committal of mental shrugs. He wasn't really shooting for that outcome, but he's not...opposed, exactly. He hasn't had a chance to take the measure of most of these people he's now tangled up with, and that's going to have to happen sooner or later. ]

( Company, part of the scenery, take your pick. )

( Scissors. )

[Scenery kid may not have the context to understand a joke both that niche and lame, but it's what came to mind. Usually he picks rock, something to smash with, but right now he's cutting away, nicking at the stranger. Seeing what he's made of.]

( Heh. Man, what kinda people they bringing into the Nest now? Why can't any of you hang right? )

[ Does rock paper scissors even exist in Zemuria? We just don't know.

Joshua doesn't spare it more than a blink and a brief mental what before he moves on, though. ]

( Define "hanging right." )

[Some variation exists everywhere, doesn't it? Wherever humans go, so too does the most pointless game of waiting a split second after your opponent reveals their choice to do the same.]

( Step one: you don't show up and not bring anything to the table. )

( You'd still find something to do whether I brought anything or not. )

[ Because yes, he absolutely noticed that you're getting high, bro. ]

[He magnifies his eyeroll until it's an oppressive, highly cerebral experience. That's not Kavinsky's usual way, but if he pushed this kid off the cliff or flipped him off, that would require leaving his present stance. And he's comfortable.]

[ The distances that some of them kept were deliberate, fastidious things. Lines in the sand, polite requests to not be intruded upon any more than they had already been made into unwitting intruders. Among brood, he treads water like a drowning man. Among the nest, he's in the shallows, fighting a strong tide - but there, at least, his feet are on solid ground. It's the best a newbie host can do, as he unpacks the extents and limitations of being part of a hivemind -- with the fixation and focus of a neurosurgeon and the precision of a bulldozer.

He's coming back, from the docks and the sea weavers and the fisherfolk, smelling of salt and damp as the heavy, wet edge of his green-and-copper robes drag through the dust and the dirt. A basket, full of once-lively eel-like bodies, clutched in both hands, resting across his belly as he spots ( another of them -- ) someone on the bluff. Doing -- shit, what the hell is he doing off the back of his hand? There's a pang of familiarity, like deja vu, all mingled up in that tangle of brood-shared thoughts and sensations, but he doesn't know the shape or the sound of this damn fool.

All he knows, is that, on instinct, he wants to plant his boot between his shoulderblades and shove him headlong off the cliff. It's a rising, painful urge. Just strike out, just shove. A wave of curling animosity, and deep disorientation brought on by the sudden feeling, which rolls up, over, cresting above Kavinsky's head as Bakugo pauses with his basket of alien food, a shiver along his spine, teeth clenched in restraint. ]

That's DISGUSTING.

[ He's never touched drugs before. They'd ruin his career before it even got off the ground; even the scent of cigarettes was unbearable. But, he's read up on what they do to people, how people describe "the hit", and the collision of whatever Kavinsky's just done unto himself causes a wave of nausea and loathing to grip his stomach. ( Is this really what his life is going to be like now? Distant, mental brushes with drug addicts and murderers? ) ]

[Someone's coming for him, hot like hounds after a fox, but there's no love of the hunt in this one. He's snapping at bushy tails because he doesn't know how to curl up in front of the fireplace like a good mutt.

Kavinsky pays no mind to the swift approach, no matter how it presses at him and scratches needle-teeth along the back of his neck. This was one of the drops where he ignored the newbies, and it turns out it was a mistake; he should have greeted them like he had the last batch. Let them know what they'd be getting into if they wouldn't leave Joe K to his wave-watching without interruption. A mistake he won't make a second time, but it's too late to go back and bite the peach he left on the tree.

The peach comes to him and it's shouting.

He rubs at his nose with the back of his hand, now more or less clean.

Kavinsky's robes are flashy, largely a shade of scarlet that leaves a slash in the mind and gives a monochrome look to his back set in front of the Red Coast. He'd had a more drab pair to start with, then he'd mutilated them and ended up with a set that would draw the eye as much as the usual magnetic ire. He's had ample chance to dream himself new sets, but when he has the chance to grab some shuteye, he's using those forty winks to nab himself another bag of pills, another grinder after he misplaced his last one.]

Gonna have to be more specific, man.

[He has an idea, because they're connected and the other boy's mental shields could use some polishing, but this isn't his first go at playing the fool.]

[ Bakugo goes incandescent in his ire, a single bulb burning brighter and hotter and closer to shattering. Playing the idiot is not a way to dissuade him from his path, it's just insulting, to be given a fool's response -- as if the wave-watcher is naive to what he's doing. He shines, a veritable lighthouse of a boy against the cliffside, elbows bent and shoulders squared off against the flashy boy he wants to just --

give one good shove.

He doesn't look like much at all. ] Do I?

[ Translation: now he means everything about you, good job. He's escalated this to the next level, like playing rage-chicken without any intention to get out of the way. ]

[Been a while since someone showed up and wanted to slap Kavinsky across the jaw without him at least having a chance to say something antagonistic. We've got a live one, folks.

He gives the horizon line another few seconds of appreciation before turning on his heel to check out the fresh meat. Even sharing a Hivemind, he's a little surprised to see how young the kid is. Not quite Kavinsky's age and already that pissy about nothing? What are the DARE programs teaching public school kids, anyway?]

Hey, man, if you're mad I don't have enough to share, you're in luck. I do.

[He pats his hips, indicating hidden pockets, or maybe just drawing attention down to the vicinity of his dick.]

[ No need to say anything, the drug use is enough of a comment on the manner of person he's squaring off with. Bakugo remembers, loosely, the middle-school kids he used to run with. A pack of halfwits, but they'd fed his ego well enough, unless they were lighting up cigarettes or nicking beer cans out of stores. Like it made them tough or something, instead of threatening his livelihood and future. ]

Yeah? Why don't you come a little closer then, put it right here, you fuck.

[ As he says it, he puts the basket of eels down. Like a knife, drawn slow and fluid from its hiding spot, he drags one of his gloves off and drops his hand low - like he's ready to take a fistful of Kavinsky -- but, judging by the way the palm of his his hand sparks and cracks with explosions, he's got his own opinions about what he'll do once he gets a hold of him. ]

[A livewire.

He felt the unrestrained indignation through their link, but then literal gloves come off and it becomes clear the boy really means to pick a physical fight on a cliff. After having only met Kavinsky all of ten seconds ago. That has to be a new record.

(K mustn't think about another kid he wanted to scrape raw, that hit him in the face, that he allowed it from because he had bigger plans.

It's hard not to compare dogs, though, when they have such similar teeth.)]

Oh. Twinsies.

[He'd already removed his gloves since he'd assumed he had some privacy and the coke would have stuck onto the fibers of any fabric.

He mirrors the other boy's pose. It takes a second, but then Kavinsky's hand lights up with sparks, pale blue in color, not so gratuitous, but a decent echo of--what's his name? Bakugou? Of his threat.]

Not even.

[ Just because their Quirks are similar doesn't mean jack shit about the content of their person. He's cussed out people for doing nicotine pulls, what's this guy think he's gonna do for someone inhaling something harder. ( He can feel, at this proximity, the weird hum of what's gotta' be the drug in Kavinsky's body. It feels, just a little, like the urge-hum in Elliot. It's not a pretty picture, for him. ) ]

You think some trick lights are gonna' be on my level? Don't make me laugh.

[ If this was any other place, any other time, he'd show him just how much stronger he was. A lightshow's a lightshow, especially compared to the liquid explosion that runs inside of him, just waiting for the proper trigger. Bakugo pulls his glove back on. Fists still balled up for a slug-out fight. ]

Drugs ruin lives, you know. How about you knock that shit off and maybe I'll consider letting you be on par with this.

[ "This", being the heel of his disguise's boot. See it? He's pointing right at it. ]

[Now that's interesting. Kid doesn't want the firefight he started, but a normal boxing match? Kavinsky could just eat him up, it's adorable. It's a shame he can't indulge him for a number of reasons, the foremost being Kavinsky's a lover, not a fighter. What he loves, though, doesn't tend to be other people. He's much more likely to flirt with what he can wring out of them.]

... What are you pointing at?

[They've been indoctrinated into an alien Hivemind, Kavinsky knows exactly what the boy wants him to look at. But he's doing a really good job of staring at the ground like it might reveal a selection of highly exclusive secrets to him if given enough attention.

It's a joke that lasts only a few seconds before he gazes back up, brows down and heavy in mock concern. His face can't be seen in the uniform, but he knows how to twist his tone to make it blatant.]

I didn't know they had the DARE program in space, babe, but thanks for the head's up. I'll think on it.

[He won't.]

Edited 2018-01-21 00:53 (UTC)

[ Honestly, ignoring half of the things that Bakugo snarls and yells is the best way to handle him. He's 50% bluster and 50% escalation, reading into social cues and microexpressions with the attentiveness of a guy used to seeking out what makes people lose their goddamn minds and fuck up. It's hard now, because all he has to go on are the tones in other's voices ( barely catches those -- ) and the way their brains feel when they get all chummy with his own. Right now, a brain could blister under the heat radiating off him. The absolute high-handed condescension. ]

Jeeze, don't make me explain it. It'd be like hand-holding with a stunted toddler.

[ wow ]

What the hell is DARE. It's just common sense. How're you supposed to get stronger if something like a drug is holding you back?

[The drug doesn't hold Kavinsky back; it holds him in check. It's not two arms wrapped around him from behind, restraining his arms; it's a hand on his shoulder, kneading the muscle fondly. But this isn't the first straightedge to tut-tut at Kavinsky's way of living his life. He's heard all this complaining before, in spirit. The same old why would you do that, take better care of yourself, blah blah. Hard to hear every unique syllable when the other speaker is riding up on their high horse.

All this boy has in his favor is he's certainly the angriest person Kavinsky's ever had berate him on his usage. That earns consideration.

Not about using, though.]

I don't need to get any stronger.

[There's a weight to the words, however blandly they're stated. Kavinsky puts out the burst of color dancing over his palm, then hides both in his pockets to hide the fact the skin was beginning to burn.]

[ Kavinsky's been avoiding him.

Which is a thing that's hard not to notice, seeing as they're all mentally connected, and especially seeing as Sam's definitely aware that Kavinsky is... one of his stronger connections. Some days he wonders if Kavinsky knows that, too, knows the bond between them'd never settled after they tripped too far into each other's minds back when Sam knew even less about what he could do than now. Or at least, if it did settle, it was into something a hell of a lot deeper than it'd been before.

Not the point, or not completely the point. The point is that Sam's noticed, and kind of guesses that it has something to do with their fluctuating connection strength.

Or, shit, it could have something to do with Kavinsky being Kavinsky, or with Sam getting incredibly drunk the night of the funeral out of grief and anger, or the hollow, aching, fragmented mess that his mind's been the last four days since his broodmate went into a coma.

Sam reaches out anyway. Normally he'd wait, give Kavinsky some space, do - something that isn't press up against Kavinsky's mind, slipping in easily past the holes in his shields that Sam's used before and then pulling back out, skimming around the surface. ]

[Sam hasn't been fun lately.

All right, that's not exactly fair, Sam has never been fun, but Sam used to not be a problem. He was the hot guy with the big me(n)tal wings and the smart facial hair. Kavinsky's appreciation of him came amply and simply; look at that body, look at that goatee, listen to that voice, pretend to pay attention while it's talking. None of that was a challenge, even if Sam gave off these vibes of being a good kid who only wanted to set off the carbomb after everyone was safely out of the line of fire. They worked together and K didn't feel a need to sleep with one eye open if Wingman was in the vicinity.

Not fun, but not bad. And then Sam changed and Kavinsky started listening when he spoke because each word pounded against his frontal lobe and built itself a vacation home there. They tried to do those mindlink endurance lessons, amounting to a shit load of nothing unless one counted being more tightly bound together than before as more than a punishment.

Then there's the dream. The fucking dream and the kissing and the clawing hands and the feathers as if someone tore apart a down-filled pillow then shoved the contents right down Kavinsky's throat along with Sam's tongue and--

The Hive at large is already too close. Why does Sam want to be the compound virus?

But just when Kavinsky assumes the man's lost interest, there he goes, yanking on his short leash, tugging at his collar with two fingers hooked beneath. He's there, but not on the cliff. Kavinsky squints at the horizon and snaps,]

( Miss me already? )

[ Sam doesn't lose interest, not that easy.

He gives space, when he thinks it's what the other person wants, and he takes space when it's what he needs, but he doesn't really lose interest. Not when he cares, and not when he thinks the other person is worth it.

Kavinsky's worth it, whatever the guy might think.

Of course Kavinsky snaps at him when Sam reaches out, and there's some kind of easy familiarity there, a banter to settle into - but Sam doesn't. His mind is still too empty, and there's the faint feeling of trying to balance on sand, slipping and sliding.

He's just honest, blunt and simple. ]

( Yeah, actually. )

[And that response, more than anything, makes Kavinsky think it's about time he sat down. He takes his time in moving from his feet to his knees to his ass, legs folded pretzel-style as he gazes at the alien sea.

If he's lucky, by the time he's settled, he'll realize he made it all up. The coke did it--convinced him Sam wanted attention right here and now, as soon as he's finished taking a bump and a line.

But it's not that easy. Ever.]

( Cool. I'm whale-watching. )

[ There's no good reason that Kavinsky's response should make Sam laugh.

But it does, hoarse and brittle, and the feeling makes it across the mental link. His shields are slipshod right now, with how much he's concentrating on not reaching out to follow down the place where his broodmate should be.

It means he's a little more focused, a little more intense than he might normally be. ]

( Yeah? You know, I've seen space whales before; they're not all that fun. )

[Does Sam want to find him? He can feel him prodding around, skulking around the edges of Kavinsky's perception, but he doesn't sense him coming nearer in a physical sense.

It's not as if he's keeping his distance, though. Biding his time, then? Waiting for something?

Does he think K will ask him?]

( How would you know, man? Did you chill with them? )

[ Sam doesn't want anything right now.

Or it's probably more accurate to say he doesn't know what the hell he wants right now. He's missed Kavinsky, wanted to check in with him - wanted to feel the brush of his mind again, to remind him that Kavinsky's still there.

Right now, talking with him like this, it's enough. Sam's not sure enough of his own mind right now to know when it won't be, when he'll push a little even though he's pretty sure Kavinsky doesn't want company right now. ]

( Yeah, they chilled with all of New York. Left a hell of a mess for us to clean up, though, they're not gonna get invited to any house parties any time soon. )

[Someone finding solace in Kavinsky's presence is new. Usually they want something very opposite of that. They want excitement, they want a sharp sting, they want to get high--okay, that last one's a comfort. But that's a matter of demand and supply.

Sam's attentions never felt like a junkie crawling on his belly to earn another hit.]

( What's up with you? )

[He asks but he already knows.

Sam's infection taught Kavinsky kindness; he doesn't mean to let it spread.]

[ I missed you spills out over their connection without Sam saying a thing, easy and honest.

He likes Kavinsky. The kid's a messed up little shit, maybe, but he's Sam's messed up little shit. Sam kind of hopes there might be a day where he's a little less messed up.

He figures Kavinsky will always be a little shit, of course, but Sam likes that about him.

His mind slips a little more against Kavinsky's, like fingers playing through fire too quick to get burned, sparks flickering and tugged by the wind. ]

( My broodmate's in a coma. Means things are a little more unstable right now. )

[My broodmate's in a coma.

Join the fucking club, Kavinsky ought to say. Everyone else has moved on past Sirius Black, there and gone in the span of a wink, but K hasn't forgotten waking up someone that instantly knew him without swathes of bullshit pockmarking the landscape between them.

Sam's broodmate is gone. Poor baby.

But Kavinsky halts his thoughts before they do more than pluck at the threads that tie them together. More of that Sam's Club influence; he doesn't want to make Wingman feel worse.

What a concept.]

( I know how to fix that. )

[They kissed. In the dream. They kissed. Does Sam know? Kavinsky locks that thought under iron plating no matter how many times it bangs against the door, sneering out the ugly truth of it.]

[ Sam hasn't forgotten, either. There's very few of them that don't know what it feels like to lose a broodmate to sleep, to feel that constant, dull emptiness.

It'd been like that with Giorno and Sam Alexander - even with Parker, though he resents it. But none of them had threatened to pull Sam with him, none of them had him teetering on this strange balance and barely able to hold on.

But he knows that K still feels Black's loss, feels the faint tinge of a bitter understanding before K holds it back.

Sam's - appreciative, and his wings curl warm around K, though he doesn't draw attention to it by saying anything. ]

( Yeah? How's that? )

[ He doesn't know. Or he does - vague snippets of memory the way he usually remembers a dream that isn't a nightmare, hazy and more feeling than anything else. It's not the first time he's had a dream like that here, and if it lingers a little more, feels a little more real - he doesn't know what to make of it.

It's not something he's going to mention. How the hell do you even say hey I dreamed we were kissing, anyway? It'd only make things awkward. ]

( Don't lie to me. You've smoked. )

[That downy embrace of Sam's has become too much work to shrug off. Instead of growing more resilient against it, Kavinsky's been worn down, smooth, like a river rock once craggy, now glass. He relaxes his shoulders, although they want nothing more than to brush the lobes of his ears.

Not all touch has to hurt or get his dick wet. Besides, it isn't even real.]

( I'll get you there. It helps. )

[ No, not all touch has to be about violence or sex - some things just are.

Sam doesn't try to qualify whatever connection he and Kavinsky have, it just is. He loves the jackass, but he'd never say it, never think it, never give what he feels that kind of weight. He's not sure Kavinsky even knows what love is, sometimes, he's not gonna shove it in his face.

Affection has been hard enough, it seems, but he still can't hold back the slow curl of warmth when Kavinsky doesn't try to push him away for the moment - not quite sunlight, closer to skin-warmth, like the beat of a heart.

He doesn't protest the smoking thing. Yeah, he has. With Kavinsky, as a matter of fact, that's not what his hesitation had been about. ]

( Yeah, it helps. Also helps me lose focus; you gonna help keep me here if I slip 'cause I can't hold on as tight anymore? )

[What's love but a combination of chemicals? Kavinsky understands chemicals; he's both supplier and alchemist. The thing is, that exact combination of chemicals comes with a price. The drop, as they call it in the biz. The time after the high when it all comes crashing down like a straw-built pig house after a huff and a puff and it was never gonna be me and you. So pardon him for wanting something he can trust in.

Cocaine fulfills every promise it makes.]

( You get such a boner off of pushing responsibility onto me. Ever noticed, man? But sure. I'll be your DD. )

[This is kindness. This is empathy. This is letting Sam have something that Kavinsky would rather not.]

[It's not easy to sneak up on another host, so it's a good thing she isn't really trying. Still-- he's preoccupied, right? Maybe Rhan wanders up to him in the fading light of the day without really being noticed until she's right there: hiking down through the tangle of shale and stone and scrub brush toward where he's camped out.]

Having fun? Hell of a view.

[She's awfully chipper - the shape of her mind as a fingerprint on glass. It's unapologetic and terribly personable. As Rhan comes down off the stone shelves toward the craggy cliff's edge, she tosses the heavy cloak section of her robes back over her shoulder and unclips a pair of bincoulars from her belt. It shouldn't be possible to look so jaunty in the Carbauschian's swaddling attire, but she's sure doing her damnedest.]

Edited 2017-12-30 02:45 (UTC)

[They haven't spoken since Kavinsky was chastised for his fashion choices. He recalls the exchange going something like him saying a lot of understandable commentary on how clothing defines you as do all personal affects whether or not you want that heavy a burden, while she was all blah blah mission blah blah ruin it blah blah wear this. He remembers it fondly, like a caramel stuck to the roof his mouth, tasty enough to recall but not the best experience at the time of consumption.]

Oh, yeah. Just waiting for Space Moses.

[As a point of reference, he'll supply a mental image of a human man in a toga carrying a slab with nondescript writing. You know, Moses.

But after that he'll give her a look, sidelong and, despite himself, curious.]

What's with you?

[Please. She's extremely blah blah blah charming. Case in point:]

Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that.

[Mostly, that rock slab just there to the right of Kavinsky seems like a perfectly fine vantage. She climbs up on the ledge of it, rubs the dust from the binocular lenses and then settles them against the eye slit of her heavy cowl.] There's all kinds of fun things happening on the beach down there. I wouldn't mind a look from a different point of view. Never know what you might spot, hmm?

[She hums, adjusting a dial on the binoculars' side.]

Having fun yet?

[He's climbed up on a few rock slabs in his time, although he prefers car roofs or house roofs or really just roofs of anything. A spaceship would work as well as any of his usual haunts, but he hasn't found one that's easy to scale.

He watches Rhan select her perch. What's that in her hands? Binoculars? He gazes back at the horizon, but there's nothing important out there. Lapping waves, probably some aquatic life motoring around beneath. What's so exciting about that?]

How could I? The party just started.

Only just? That's a damn shame.

[She speaks with the binoculars still there against her eyes, adjusting some dial on the side with one hand while the other slips casually into her tunic pocket.]

I've heard you've quite the hook up. Though I'll admit I haven't got it figured out how. Supply line all the way out here? [Rhan lowers the binoculars and quirks an eyebrow at him.] Now that's impressive.

[A magician never reveals his secrets, but Kavinsky's more like a wizard who doesn't think there's any real danger when nobody can copy his act. Still, isn't it fun to let her keep guessing at how he keeps coming up with all these little plastic baggies in the middle of Fuck Nowhere, Space?

He grins and there's so many teeth.]

Was there a question in there? Go ahead. Ask me.

[Certainly:]

So then where and how are you getting it from?

[Look, she isn't about to let a silly little thing like pride stop her from sating her curiosity. That just seems like the height of wastfulness, doesn't it?]

[There's one word for it, and he lets it out like the resulting smoke from the smuggest, most self-indulgent drag from a blunt he's ever sucked down while someone else sucked--

Anyway.]

Magic.

Ah. [It's a knowing sound.] You're one of those.

[There's an unmistakable kind of good humor and fondness in the shape of it, and though reading her expression in the heavy cloak and cowl is completely impossible, there's something in the shape of her mind and the cock of her hip under everything that somehow gives the impression of an arched eyebrow - a crooked grin.

She sets the binoculars back to her eyes, and fixes her attention back along the coast line.]

That's a very handy sort to have in the back pocket.

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