o2 🔥 HELL ON THE SHORE WITH THE WIDOWS OF LOVE

[pillz]

Who: Joseph Kavinsky & you
When: Throughout November [2016 or your local star-date]
Where: The Moira, Midway Hub pending mod information
What: Open catch-all for November! Kavinsky noodles around being reckless and problematic and young, despite the fact that we were all aliens a couple days ago and now our spaceship is getting peculiarly spongy and exhausting.
Warnings: Offensive language (e.g., racism, misogyny, etc.), underage drinking, drug use (i.e., cocaine), some indications of mental illness



November 1 | maleficus @ sanitation

[for another peculiar day, he's a maleficus and deeply uncomfortable with small spaces.

by then, he's abandoned even trying to sleep in the crowded four-man quarters assigned to them. instead, he has retreated to sanitation-- technically, his workplace. there aren't a lot of dry stretches on the floor, but he found one and claimed it by the wall. he takes up in an odd, childish little pile of scavenged bedclothes, over by the wall and below the eerie creak of piping. far enough from the door to keep an eye on it.

he plays with a lighter, enraptured by the flames. he's always liked fire, but these weird few weeks have been the only time he's preferred it to the company of people to pester. nonetheless, when you walk in, his eyes focus like a laserlight. no point pretending what he's doing is normal.]

Yo.

2-5 | hoverboard

[the next day, he wakes up himself again, pale and spiky and sociable in the worst possible ways. a dream thief who fears nothing in particular.

and by the afternoon, he's barreling down the hallway drunk on a hoverboard.

the machine is an untested concept for him, based on half-assed theory and dubious execution, something out of a movie or a video game that reminded him of the moira's overall aesthetic. it stretches a little longer than a skateboard, with toe grips, blue light shooting out of the back, aerodynamic at first glance but nnnnot very science. and so it stands to reason, he has to shout a warning when he goes around the corners, something brief and universally understood, like:] OUTTA MY FUCKING WAY, BITCH.

[but he manages to crash into you anyway, just like the dave matthews song, all elbows and twittering space-age electronics.]

3 | j austen's secret bar

[whether it's by rumor or following the notorious reek of cigarettes on a certain blonde, the teenager turns up in the bar space (space bar) (hahaha) one evening. other people are occupied with solving the mysteries of the ingress, but he gives approximately zero fucks about that. the research had seemed, at best, a sobering kind of activity and who needs that.

he's half-expecting to be turned away. despite the the general ne'er-do-well quality to his hangdog slouch, too-skinny shoulders, and the kind of face that promises not to age well into his twenties, he does look like an underage fiend trying to sneak in places on the power of a clever bribe and bombastic overconfidence. which he is. minus the bribe, maybe. who has anything to bribe with in space? if anybody does, he's (bombastically) confident that it's him.]

Whatever's on tap. Yo, do you have a fucking tap?

5+ | your cat is either dead or asleep, but mostly, he's in the way

[the war against sleep is one kavinsky has spent many years of his life fighting. cocaine helps. adrenalized fun times, adventures in deep space, the excitement of plotting revenge. historically, his sleep cycle has been a carefully controlled sequence of uppers and downers, some of which come in powderform that he likes to snort up his nose. he understands it pretty well, in that he knows how he likes to feel, and what nightmares he'd prefer to avoid. he knows his body, how well it tolerates abuse and at what point he has to bury his head under a pillow and pass out.

none of it equips him for the catastrophic fatigue that kicks in that day. it's absurd. the extra line doesn't do much, and the sleep that pulls him feels oddly black, dreamless in a way that would be terrifying if he weren't a monster himself.

and that's when you find him lying in the hallway. fast asleep on the floor, head on his arms. as entitled as a cat.]

Comments

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[In the end J hadn't been much help to the Ingress team, which wasn't all that surprising. All she had done was brought them coffee once or twice and then later explored the unlocked new section but that's about it. And with both Tony and Shepard busy with the new findings it pretty much left J to deal with the bar hidden in Moro #20 all by herself.

Like always, she's standing behind the bar counter with a cigarette in her one hand and magazine in another. She does notice when the new customer enters to the bar but doesn't raise her gaze just yet. She doesn't remember seeing him around before, so a new crew member then? Of course it's very obvious that he's underage but J hardly cares about that, it's not like she hasn't served alcohol to younger people before.

Once he's reached the counter J lowers the magazine and looks up to him, all ready to greet him with a proper smile to welcome him.

Isn't he a cocky one.]

Well, sweetie. Use your eyes. [She hums and gestures at the counter. There's no taps, all that they have is stored inside the jars and bottles that are either stocked inside the small refrigerator underneath the counter.]

[pillz]

[he is the cocky one. but obliging enough to follow her instructions, craning his head to look over the counter at where she's gesturing. it's true. there would appear to be no taps running along the length of the counter-top. which stands to reason, what with their being in outer-space, at least to the extent that there's reason for anything out here in outer-fucking-space.

but it's a bar and a human to pester, so kavinsky lets a smile crawl across his narrow face and he looks up at her again. studies her from under his heavy eyelids. he notices the breadth of her shoulders, something about the shape of her jaw, but he says nothing of it in the moment. instead, he leans across and peels his lips back, exposing a row of orthodontically immaculate teeth.] Cool.

You got any vodka back there, or it just freaky potato moonshine? Hey. [he taps his knuckles restlessly.] How's a asshole supposed to pay?

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[Oh, J isn't bothered by his staring the least. It's something she's rather used to and in her mind being focus of someone's attention like this isn't necessarily a bad thing. Who knows, maybe he's curious and checking her out? Either way she's more than just confident to believe he'll like what he sees.

She tosses magazine under the counter and shakes off the ashes from her cigarette to empty glass that works as an astray. The smug confidence in her smile is matching to his as she leans back, giving him more room on the counter.]

We like to call it prison yard moonshine. But you know, only fancier. And as for payment? [She pauses to take a drag out of her smoke.] Assholes pay in any way they can. You got something to offer, sweetie?

[pillz]

[this feels very new orleans somehow. she seems very new orleans. something about the hair and the moonshine and the sweetie. he can't remember the last time someone had called him that. one of the middle-aged secretaries at the high school, maybe.

he'd cured that woman of that habit pretty quick.]

Fifty-year-old whisky? [he suggests, with a smile that reaches all the way up to his eyes. it sounds like a joke. it isn't a joke. but he expects her to think it is. what's the point in having superpowers as you hurtle post-mortem through space in a parallel dimension on a gigantic spaceship if you aren't going to show them off in decidedly unfair trade?] My dad used to drink the shit. I know what it's like. I can get you some.

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[New Orleans is a tad bit too far. Try again and go back few decades and then you might hit right.

The comment about the whiskey makes her to arch her brow up in amusement. The over-confidence in his tone and smile makes his pitch sound unbelievable. Like a kid who's trying convince her to let him to take part something that he's not old enough yet. It briefly makes her think of the boys in her school who tried to appear as grown ups to sneak inside to the local movie theater to see rumored porn flick.]

You don't say? Well, if you have something like that with you it makes me wonder what you're doing here.

[pillz]

For the ambience, baby. [he puts on a stupid accent for just the word ambience. turns it into ohhhmbioooohns.

then he leans forward, studying her face, curious if she's going to buy it. it does not bother kavinsky overmuch if she doesn't. he's been a lot of things before: dead, an alien, infamous, transported to an alternate dimension (or technically two), in love to the extent that that's even possible for him. to be disbelieved is kid stuff, really. deeply familiar.] Hell, I could keep you in stock. Steady supply. [overconfidENCE WHAT OVERCONfidence never. (he would totally be one of those boys in her school, if those boys in her school had superpowers.)] But I know people don't all pay in quality shit.

Why don't you hit me once, I'll get you back. Start there?

[gentlemenpreferblondes]

[Okay. The mock accent earns a small laugh from her. It's really amusing to see him to press and try to sell his pitch without any real proof of it. J can't help but like him already. If anything his bold and daring attitude sure works as good entertainment. Let's see how far he can go with that.

She shrugs slightly and reaches to grab one of the moonshine jars from the mini fridge they keep hidden under the counter and places it between them. However, she doesn't remove her hand on top of it just yet and instead keeps tapping the lid with her long red nail, her smile turning more teasing.]

It's a start, yes. But first, you got a name?

2-5 :3c

[diamondslap]

[aurelia is knocked to the floor form the impact, shrieking in pure anger from the pure audacity. a poor, thinking he has the right to touch her?! disgusting!]

How dare you?! [she whips around, scuttling backwards on her ass and glaring at darin with an expression that could curdle milk.] You insolent-- I'll have your head!

cw sexual vulgarity WHISPERS I'M SORRY

[pillz]

[kavinsky almost falls off himself. he winds up catching his balance with a hand on the wall, his board wallowing up and down a few times before

he does fall off. kind of. one foot finally skipping down onto the floor. fine, gravity. you win, this time. it's not until he has himself squared that he looks down at the woman wiggling around like a crab. one eyebrow hikes high on his forehead. eventually he'll get used to people talking kinda old-timey up here, but for now, it hasn't gotten old to say:]

Like in an oral way?

heheHEHEHEHHE

[diamondslap]

No! In a I will murder your entire family way!

[she hasn't been this angry in a while. maybe she's just using it as an excuse to blow off some frustration.]

Make one more comment like that and you will not leave here alive!

[pillz]

[kavinsky stares at the woman for a long moment. and then he pokes his mouth out, thoughtfully, and then thoughtfully frowns. he is not the biggest fan of his own family, to be honest. it might a character flaw.]

Can you give us a demo, [he requests. he kicks his hoverboard upright, wraps his arm around it like a surfboard.] You can practice on this if you want. [he knocks his fist on it.] You got superpowers besides looking like a crab, right?

[diamondslap]

I was trying not to get smacked by your bloody hoverboard, moron!

[honestly her ass is so chapped she's practically got steam coming out her ears.

anyway, she stands up, dusts off her coat. takes one look at the hoverboard, then casually holds out her arm and fires off her diadem. if it hits, it's gonna cover that board in a good amount of ice, then fly back to her.

giving kavinsky the... cold shoulder.]

[pillz]

[that is

quite the cold shoulder, by kavinsky's estimation, and he's come up against some truly brutal efforts at ignoring him before.

the diadem hits. the ice blooms sudden and bright and physically impossible, glinting in the sunshine. he stares at it for a long moment, then gives his hoverboard a push with his foot. the machine squeaks slightly, complaining, conceding to his 'order' rather sluggishly.]

That. is. off the fucking chain, man, [he howls, staring at the woman.] Holy shiiit. What is that, like magical vagina metaphor? Holy shit! That fucking rocks!

hoverboard

[deadthing]

[Noah is slow to react. In the space of time between the shout and impact, he just about manages to turn around and see what's coming and then he's down. There's no wind to be knocked out of him, at least. Small mercies. He rolls over and sits up, looking more startled than hurt.]

You're supposed to say that before you-- [Oh. Oh. Kavinsky.] Um.

[He's been vaguely aware through Ronan's thoughts that Kavinsky is here (somehow) and not dead (somehow) but being quite literally struck by the truth of it is something else.]

[pillz]

[kavinsky catches his balance admirably, his skinny arms flaring out, hips shifting to center himself. he doesn't fall off the hoverboard, although the thing swerves before it stops, in a way that probably could've hurt noah if he was 1) a little closer and 2) not already dead.

when the bulgarian boy looks at him, there is no recognition in his gaunt face. none at all.]

Stop, [he says.] Don't fucking pretend you dunno 'stop.' What is this, some bullshit Frrrrench affectation? [he smiles.]

[deadthing]

[Noah continues picking himself up, eyeing Kavinsky warily.]

I was going to say 'run people over.' Actually.

[It's not a surprise that Kavinsky doesn't seem to know who he is—Noah is quite certain he'd never noticed him before—but it is, nonetheless, a relief. Not as big of a relief as continuing to be invisible would have been. Still, it's something. If he doesn't connect him to Ronan, maybe he won't take an interest.]

[pillz]

[if he doesn't connect him to ronan, it's true; the likelihood of taking an interest is considerably lower.] Sounds about as fucking stupid, [he says, swinging his arms out grandly. he mounts his hoverboard again, both feet, stabilizing with a slight frisson of movement above the floor.]

Hey.

[he drifts closer, a few inches. staring at noah curiously.] You wanna get on?

[deadthing]

[His gaze drifts down to the board against his better judgment. It's... really cool, actually. If anyone else were making this offer, he'd take them up on it in a figurative heartbeat.

As it is, he stares a little too long before he manages to tear his eyes away, back to somewhere in the vicinity of Kavinsky's face (he can't quite bring himself to look him in the eye).]

...No thanks, man. I'm good.

lmk if this is too infomod

[pillz]

[there's a short silence on kavinsky's end as he stares at the other boy, trying to determine what's off about this moment. the guy is totally into the hoverboard. what boy would not be into the hoverboard?]

Hey.

[kavinsky steps his foot off the hoverboard, and then slides nearer. right up into the ghost's face. his face is casual, his eyes unblinking as he stares into noah's, studying him sharply.] You been talking to some bitch named Lynch?

post-crash/late nov, closed to ronan lynch;

[pillz]

[kavinsky's idea of a love nest is all at once brutally utilitarian and fancifully childish. the pillow-top, king-sized mattress comes right up against the reinforced walls of the tent, which is dense waterproofed canvas, has zippable windows, the kind of boxy multiple-thousand-dollar construction that only assholes take for camping. there is, absurdly, a television up on two of the walls, powered by nothing but glibe intent.

all the storage space available resides under the bed, and by now, ronan is well familiar with the combination of strange items there. bacon and miniature frozen pizzas packed with dry ice, a hot plate, toaster oven, a bag of cocaine the size of a flour sack, biscuits, crackers, cheese, twizzlers and m&ms and lemon drops and sour patch kids and licorice sticks (a mistake, kavinsky had grudgingly admitted) and lime gummy dinosaurs and fruit rollups and reese's peanut butter cups, and cigarettes, vodka, whisky, beer, coffee that never seems to go bad, rope, duct tape, water, clothes, hair gel, ax body spray. there's probably more space beneath the bed than there should be, and somehow, nothing's ever that hard to find.

apart from the pills. the ones for dreaming, and for not-dreaming.

kavinsky doesn't seem to watch his stash too closely, most of the time. he seems content to chip in on the camp only when hassled or bribed or asked very nicely; occasionally, when eh's that bored.

otherwise, he appears either exhausted or content to lie in bed and watch versions of movies that seem to have much more gay sex and violence than the originals. he even turns down the volume when ronan tries to nap, providing the other boy a pill at a time. green ones are for dreaming. but--] This is Prazosin, [he says, placing an oddly mundane-looking yellowish capsule in the boy's hand.] For old cunts with bad hearts. Or PTSD losers. Military's handing this shit out for our boys with nightmares. Think that'll cut it?

[nightmarist]

[Ronan can't believe he's doing this again. He's been cycling through shame and humiliation since the moment he set foot in this tent, and the feeling's hardly abated even now that he's sprawled out next to Kavinsky with a bottle of vodka cradled against his chest. Especially not now. He's regressing, a professional might say. The doctors at the psych ward would call this self-destructive behavior. Ronan doesn't think he would argue with them, but he's also exhausted all self-preservation techniques and landed at the last resort.

What doesn't kill you... etc., etc.

He takes the pill from Kavinsky and holds it up in front of his face, trying to focus on it with slightly blurred, drunken vision.]

Sure. Why the fuck not.

[He drops it onto his tongue and swallows it down with a swig of vodka. A rather delayed moment later, he wonders if it's one of those drugs that should be avoided when drinking. Oh well.]

[pillz]

[well, ronan's worse judgment does have a point. the last time they did this, only one of them had been killed, and it hadn't been ronan.

silver linings and all.

kavinsky doesn't take a pill for himself. he has no particular worries about what waits for him on the other side of sleep. instead, he plucks the liquor bottle out of ronan's hand and takes a swing, then cinches it between his thighs. he scoots back on the bed, taking the drink with him. unmistakably, he then starts to strip off his jumpsuit, his white shoulders emerging like cinderella's in her magical girl transformation sequence. there's no particular ceremony to it. it's not striptease as far as kavinsky's concerned; he doesn't want to sleep in his space uniform, and that's all.] When was the last time you tried to dream about some other shit? Something you wanted to take.

[nightmarist]

[Ronan's eyes follow the vodka bottle and remain on Kavinsky too long before he realizes he's staring as Kavinsky undresses. When his alcohol-riddled brain registers the smoothness of Kavinsky's skin, he looks away sharply.]

Before time got all fucked up. Doesn't matter what I'm trying to do, though. The thing's always there. It was just a little at first, but now it's all over. Everything's dead. It's worse than it ever was, even back when I didn't know how to do shit.

[pillz]

[for better or worse, kavinsky isn't quite hipster enough to prefer sleeping entirely in the nude. he punches the pillows around until he finds a set of boxers scrunched up at the edge of the bed, and lifts them up. setting aside the vodka, he puts his feet in the air to tug them on, up his narrow legs and skinny hips. the bed dips underneath him, then settles when he tosses himself back on the covers.]

Lynch. Always forgetting where my fucking eyes are. [kavinsky hadn't even glanced at him, but still.]

And you think if you dream with me. [assuming the dreams take. assuming the prazosin doesn't cut it out from under him.]

[nightmarist]

[Ronan doesn't look at Kavinsky again, instead staring straight ahead at the opposite side of the tent. He hates that he looked. He hates that he was caught looking.]

I don't know. I'm out of ideas. If I have to go back in there, I at least don't want to be alone.

[He doesn't like how that sounds. Grimacing, he clarifies:]

If I can't control what's going on, maybe you can.

[Or maybe the demon will simply eat Kavinsky. Who knows? It's hard to think of that as a loss at this particular moment.]