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.]