o4 🔥 bitter bitter sweet no more

[pillz]

Who: Kavinsky + Andyr + some hallucinated guests ;;; also a separate Ronan
When: Early January 2017
Where: The floor in the tower with all the corpses. Also, Andyr's imagination.
What: Kavinsky being http://37.media.tumblr.com/acc0449d5631384dd581e69a17a3dfbe/tumblr_n4b43yL9nv1qiju81o5_r1_250.gif, elaborate creep revenge, the usual. Edited now to include Ronan Lynch's murder-shaped revenge!
Warnings: R for death, corpses, psychologically manipulative revenge, mention of suicide, concerning themes from Andyr's character history, murder attempt



closed to andyr;

[after the initial discovery of the second floor, it'd been crowded with a brief spate of investigators, some of them properly equipped-- hopefully— for the act of scavenging residual supplies, and others merely do-gooders, concerned and hopeful of survivors. of course, that latter hope died pretty quick. the air itself is noxious and filled with bacteria. you'd have to have a pretty strong constitution to want to stay for any length of time, no matter how promising the allure of overlooked supplies in better-protected spaces.

fortunately for andyr princes involved, andyr prince has a very good constitution. supernaturally so, by the measure of ordinary people, like the one who's been casually stalking him for the past few weeks. no doubt, it had neither surprised nor particularly concerned andyr, to find the skinny bulgarian boy with his gas mask wandering in the periphery of his vision as he moved between corpses and sorted through shelves. or merely watching him when he entered the tunnel heading up. kavinsky is a creeper. andyr knows this. tangling with him had led ronan to try to kill himself, but kavinsky seems to tend to skirt the laws prohibiting murder and andyr's survived worse than anything the silly kid could throw at him short of that.

so it goes.

this is andyr's second day scouting. he enters the fetid murder morgue, bag empty, and not even his impressive senses can pick it up, when a gas begins to release out of a cannister under one of the corpses nearest the entrance.]

closed to ronan;

[on this fine and fatal night, the sky is full of stars. camp is quiet. by now, most people are in bed, barring a few nocturnal revelers up to comfort each other or perhaps speculate what their future beyond the ingress will hold, perhaps the scientists hard at work on the great machine high in the tunnels. and of course, one ronan lynch.

kavinsky's been planting his tent near medical, the heart of camp— tactically intelligent, if you care about keeping yourself alive against irish vengeance. it's hard to tell, sometimes, how many fucks kavinsky actually gives about his life. but this decision would suggest he had at least one.

but then he leaves camp. so maybe half a fuck.

fifteen minutes later, and ronan finds him out in a shallow cave, huddled out of sight of camp. there's something moving by him, a flicker of firelight.

but change the angle a little, and it's clear that it is nothing built for cooking or for warmth; instead, it's a creature made of glowing smoke and strange, sharp teeth. a dragon, which stands no higher than kavinsky's crouching knees. it capers and hisses and crawls harmlessly into kavinsky's stitch-marked arms, wriggling. it would appear that kavinsky made himself a friend, a macabre revision of the thing that killed him in henrietta long ago, when ronan had been trying to save him.

hell. the time for role reversal seems ripe.]

Comments

[deconstruct]

[ ronan had told him to be careful with kavinsky. he'd warned him that he's smart, that he'll find new and horrible ways to hurt him, and andyr, stubborn and often simple as he tends to be in moments like this, had thought he was doing that. that just watching the boy skirt around just far enough away to be out of conflict zones meant keeping a wary eye out. even after seeing adam drugged, he'd thought, the kid would have to get close to him to try anything like that, and going through the last 6 years like a tank trying to drive through a brick wall left him believing himself a bit more untouchable than he is.

he doesn't notice the gas, doesn't hear the hiss of it, doesn't smell anything different in the air, and doesn't notice the world shift, when it begins. everything tilting on its axis. not at first, as the drug settles into his mind like creeping smoke, rolling out to cover everything. andyr'd become somewhat desensitized to simple carnage some years ago, and stepping through the corpses he's already aware of isn't what has a chill creeping up his spine. it's the glimpses of faces that he starts to catch, like one looks just a little too much like mal, a little too much like mikal.

it's in the frigid air that prickles over his skin, the familiar sounds of metal scraping on tile, and distant screaming, wailing sobs, and that stark stench of antiseptic that always turns andyr's stomach. it's putting a sharp pain in his head, and he closes his eyes, standing still in a massacred hallway, as a hand pushes at a temple. when he opens them, the world he'd been on is gone.

as if the ingress had swept him up right there and then, the halls around him are the stark white and harsh stone and metal greys of hapsburg, only ever disturbed by the splash of violent red, and sprawled bodies. he knows them now - some wearing his face, some wearing others he's known, eyes wide and fear stricken, but glassed over in death. some he's positive are resistance fighters, and the horrific thought comes to him - they'd been wrong. you don't return the same place. they'd needed him, and he'd been gone, and they'd been left cornered into the death trap that the fortress is, slaughtered.

andyr's heart is pounding, breathing shallow and rapid, as panic screams through him, followed directly by a despair he wish he could deny. he'd known, hadn't he? that they had barely a sliver a chance at this working? andyr stumbles, feet bare in his mind though booted in reality, as they scrap across the slick, blood soaked floor, and catch on limp bodies. ] Mikal, Mikal, no no no, please-- [ andyr's rambling mindlessly, knowing he'd had the rebel leader right next to him when the Ingress had taken him. he trips, falling, with a hand landing against the chests of one of the corpses, too too cold under his hand. pulling himself up, andyr's eyes rise to the body first, and where his hand had fallen. four long, deep gashes streaked across the chest, and his fingertips fit perfectly into each trench in the dead flesh. something starts to dawn on him, something sick and terrifying and unforgivable.

pulling back his hand, it shakes as he brings it to his face, forgetting how to breathe for a hand full of too long seconds. underneath the jagged nails, there it is - skin, and drying blood caking his palm. he'd done this. ]

[pillz]

[for some reason, kavinsky had thought there would be musical screaming by now. he doesn't like the quiet much, as a general rule. sure, it's helpful when you're jimmying your way into somebody's home, and to assess the proximity of an accidentally-produced dream monster, but otherwise-- honestly. boring.

hhhh—khsssh. hhhhh—kshhhsh. kavinsky breathes in and he breathes out, watching andyr's small figure from across the vast space of the station level. he kind of feels like darth vader in this mask and maybe also with the revenge. he doesn't actually know anything about star wars, so the thought ends there in a half-hearted fizzle. it's all right. he has a fair amount of patience, despite being addicted to cocaine and prone to certain impulse control problems (e.g., suicide). maybe this is going someplace, over time.

he sits down on the nearest available surface. a desk that has the slow-rotting head of some slumped-over person on it, but nothing oozy or liquid on the surface. he swings his little boots above the floor, and tries not to think about how he can't smoke a cigarette while he's using this stupid thing on his head, or about how badly his clothes are going to smell. also, his wrist scars are itchy. his life is so hard right now, he can't even. what a fucking cross to bear. he turns on his tab.

meanwhile, in andyr-cam—-

the blood beneath his boots has that viscosity that suggests the killing hadn't taken place long ago. new death has its own special smell, sweet, but not as ripe as old death that andyr has scented hundreds of times before, clinging to the bitter reek of chemical cleaners and other cosmetic scents of the hapsburg. mikal doesn't answer because mikal is dead, his face blank with it, absent in a way that does not imply real rest. someone to the left of him is still alive but fading-- facedown, there's just the dying twitch in his fingers that speaks to the final throes of brain death. there's a piece of rebar protruding from his ear, finger-marks the size of andyr's hands bent into the end of it.

and then there's a shimmer of sensation through the very edge of andyr's senses. it's a sound, technically, but it's so faint that it seems more like a movement inside his head, or the twitch of muscles tensed like iron in his neck. it's not his imagination (except for the fact that, of course, it totally is—).

someone's alive.]

[deconstruct]

[ his stomach ought to be heaving, andyr thinks, as his eyes slide to the twitching, jerking, fading figure to his left, but it isn't. somewhere, distantly, he thinks his hand should be shaking when it lifts to fit his fingers into the grooves on the bar, but they don't. at the realization of his own part in this bloodbath, it seems like some kind of cold, frigid veil descends, or like he's been plunged through a hole in thick ice, into still, dead water below.

angling the bar, he lifts it, just enough to see the side of a face. mal - posie's friend. somewhere on the other side of him, beneath a limp arm, there's a shock of pink hair, in the clean spaces the blood hadn't hit, on what's left of a body that's been ripped in half, and andyr doesn't need to lift her face to know it's posie.

the hallway reeks around him, on him, and for a long, still moment, he watches as tremors jolt through mal's dying form, his brain struggling to repair itself, and failing fast. the silence is deafening, like a physical force, andyr listening to the measure of his own breathing, as his hands reach for the boy's head (KN2, this one was how old? 2? 3 years?). there's a sharp twist, a crack of bones, and the body finally stills. some part of him wants to say he was attempting some kind of mercy. the other tells him it was more for his own benefit than mal's.

it hardly matters, at this point, that there's guards and techs mixed in with the bodies of his friend's. that maybe the house did fall, and his massacre had just created enough chaos to be a tipping point. what point is having freedom when he'd just ended all the people he wanted to win it for? when all he is is this - a husk of a being, excelling in the cold mechanics of violence and fury, and dead to everything else? the distant sounds, further. city authorities will start swarming the building, once they regroup, he thinks. houses from some cities over will pick through the bones of this tomb he's made and cannibalize it into something new.

hand gripping the bar still buried in mal's skull, it gives a sickening squelching sound as he pulls at it, eyes unfocused over the gore around him. this was an inevitability, wasn't it? they'd all known he'd go through them to get to the other side, if it came to it. he'd told them as much, even if he'd been picky about which ones. it's like snake had been telling them - there's a danger in being as uncontrolled as he is. he'd thought he'd be able to tell the difference, but in the end, it'd all blurred together - just his anger and bloodlust against the world. yanking the bar the last of the way free, it fits too familiar in his hand, and andyr pushes to stand.

there's no fixing what he's done here. the least he can do, now, is make a statement of it, and have the courtesy to die in the process, as he stalks towards the source of that barely there noise, stepping over the corpses littered around him. a blood soak hand lifts to his face, and he drags it down over his features, like war paint. he'd only ever tried to stay alive to make some decent use out of himself, to be able to say that he did something, so if the rest of him is unforgivable, this tool of war is all that deserves to stay. ]

im following an idea, yell at me in pp if you need more or less or whatever

[pillz]

[there's somebody hobbling away. broad in the shoulders the way that andyr is, a little taller. dark hair rusted through with grey. his balance is off, which probably has something to do with the blood soaked through his left pant leg, as well as the fact that his right arm now ends just below the elbow. at some point, he'd fashioned a tourniquet. it isn't pretty, but it'll keep him alive. a trick he had no doubt learned in the military.

stefan looks over his shoulder and sees his son.

he blanches, and then he almost falls, his foot catching on the outstretched arm of another corpse. he slams into a desk, catching himself there. the cracked and broken console sitting on top of it winds up skidding sharply off the top. slams into the floor, ringing in the hollow space of the ingress tower. but blink again, and there's no desk, no console, no ingress. it had been a gurney, on the move, some morbid medical procedure starting up in the guts of the hapsburg before the raid had interrupted. not entirely unlike the way andyr's arrival seems to do to his father now. he skids the gurney into the wall, swearing. he's too pale. there won't be care for miles. not for him.]

Andyr. Andyr. [the older man throws up his hand. fear is obvious in his voice, if not as acute a terror as one would expect given the massacre around them. and, you know. the gorey warpaint fresh on andyr's face.] Andyr-- it's me.

It's your father. [there's something of dignity in his voice somehow. authority. despite the premature termination of his arm, the pain in the act of simply walking, and the gravelly, raw, hoarse edge to his voice that suggests he's already tried this at least once before, stefan prince is still his father.] Please don't do this. Don't listen to them. Whatever they did-- to you, we'll figure it out. We'll deprogram it. Can you hear me? [he slumps. he should be closer to gone, but he had had stubbornness in spades. it runs in the family.]

ahh, nah its wonderful, bean :>

[deconstruct]

[ it's cruel, he thinks, as he stands over his father's trembling, mangled form, a man that ought to be six and a half years dead. to drag him through all this, let him waste himself away, sharpen all his bones into points and learn what blood tastes like on his tongue, only to bring this in front of him again. but hapsburg always prided themselves in cruelty, and in the mice's capacity to survive it.

he's wide eyed, as he stands rigid over the man he remembers tucking him in at night, reading him bedtime stories and walking him to school, rebar raised up like a spear, ready to bury in his chest. it can't be real, he thinks, at first - andyr'd watched the bullet fly, seen the body fall, felt warm blood splatter across his cheek while his sister gunned their father down. and yet, this is a place that builds copies of copies of copies, the only thing telling andyr he's even still himself being the metal ports drilled into his spine, and a few sneaky bits of ink.

but here's stefan prince, in perfect replica, as if pulled straight from his memories, bleeding out by his son's hand rather than his daughter's. maybe their family is just damned to consume itself, and the andyr can't convince his limbs to move, either out of paranoia of this being fake, or fear of it being real. ]

They didn't do this to me, Dad. [ andyr's voice comes out in a too even whisper. ] I did.

[ it's startlingly familiar to that night - stefan prince sprawled on the marble floor, limbs at odd, unnatural angles, and one of his children standing over him, violence soaked into their skin and veins and dna. maybe this is what happened to his sister, while they'd been too late to save her. they'd pushed and pushed until she'd twisted herself into something vicious to survive, and it led her to the same point he'd at now. the two of them have made this loving family into a macabre nightmare. ]

You and mom should've caved our heads in after the first breath we took.

[nightmarist]

[It isn't really patience that's kept Ronan from doing this sooner. The fact is, leaving Adam's side for even a moment had become difficult in the days following the discovery of his dream corpse. Eventually, though, it feels like the errand of murdering Kavinsky has been put off for far too long. It's giving Ronan paranoia, the constant buzzing idea that, somewhere around here, Kavinsky's plotting his next evil move. And that it will probably involve killing Adam for real. In the face of that risk, murder is really the only option, in Ronan's eyes. If revenge wasn't enough.

When Ronan finds him with his miniature suicide dragon, he can only assume it's some part of the next phase. That's nice for Kavinsky. Ronan's creeping up the rocks holding the same expandable steel loc baton he's been wielding throughout the search of the tower, and now he's stepping up out of the darkness to swing it at the back of Kavinsky's head. No warning, no angry speeches. He intends to kill Kavinsky as swiftly and quietly as he can, cause a minor rock slide to conceal the body, and return to Adam's side. Where he belongs. The little dream dragon will go to sleep with its maker.]

[pillz]

[the little dream dragon doesn't want to go to sleep, though. the little dream dragon sees the shadow over its master's shoulder, and opens its razor-rimmed mouth, lets out a piercing shriek-- a teeny tiny version of the horrifying roar that had rolled over july 4th.

kavinsky turns his head. just in time to get hit on the wrong side of it by a piece of pipe.

the impact is enough to toss him over onto his shoulder, his skinny, uniformed frame tumbling over rock and dust. he's immediately trying to get away, despite being shocked and dazed besides-- a lizard-brained scrabble of fingers on fine dirt. the smokey creature he'd been playing with scuttles ahead of him, screaming furiously at ronan, wispy tail writhing behind it.] Sonofa-- [he's bleeding already, his cheek split to the bone.]

[nightmarist]

[In full Terminator mode, Ronan says nothing, and he ignores all the dragon's protests as he steps forward to bring the rod down on Kavinsky again. This time, he aims for the kneecap, intending to disable him before he can scramble his skinny little ass too far out of reach. Ronan's putting all of the strength of his thick arms into that swing, and even if he misses, it's powerful enough to to shatter solid rock.]

[pillz]

[bone cracks. crack. it's audible, even with the tiny magic lizard's cries of protest.

even when kavinsky screams, even though that comes a beat later. delayed by the fact he didn't really want to scream. the end of it frays out into a crazy laugh, almost incredulous. well shit. it's finally happening, he thinks. he supposes this mean ronan loves adam more than he loves matthew. or maybe it's andyr, of the hallucinogenic fart dreams.

he hurls a handful of rock dust into ronan's face, and kicks with his good foot. if he's going to die— well. might as well do it slow, in agony, this time. no point in doing the same thing twice.]

[nightmarist]

[Ronan sputters and spits when the dirt hits his face, but even half-blind, he won't stop swinging. He has a general idea of where Kavinsky's body is at, so he aims a chaotic couple of blows in that direction.

He's not enjoying this. He doesn't relish Kavinsky's screams. It takes the memory of Adam's corpse to keep him going, all of the despair he'd turned on himself now transformed into hatred for Kavinsky. They've never been friends, always bitter enemies. But this silent, unstoppable rage of Ronan's is something he'd reserved exclusively for the Grey Man and Colin Greenmantle.

Now he's going to kill Kavinsky and he's going to make it hurt.]

meanwhile, back at the ranch:

[deconstruct]

[ while ronan's off beating people to death, andyr's finally taken a fucking shower, thank god, and though his head is still a nightmarish mess, he's more focused on the present. the present means, check in with baldy and wonderboy to make sure they hadn't been subjected to something similar. not that he plans on telling either of them what kavinsky had done - that's between him and kavinsky.

when he goes looking for them, though, he only finds one half of the duo, just adam, waiting around without fuzzy. something already very off, considering ronan had been practically up adam's ass in the days after the corpse showed up. ]

Hey. Where'd Fluffy run off to?

[unaffluent]

[ Adam didn't know the answer to that question, so it bothers him when Andyr comes up to him asking. He's been fiddling with his TAB, with no particular thing in mind to do with it yet, waiting for Ronan to come back. He should be back soon, it's been a while since he left. ]

Not sure. [ He begrudgingly answers Andyr, not really wanting to admit they might be in the same boat about something. It's hard to look at Andyr directly too without replaying recent memories and imagined memories as well. ]

[deconstruct]

[ adam parrish seems to dislike him more and more each passing day, and while that isn't anything new for andyr to experience, this is the first occasion that actually bothers him. now he isn't even looking at him while they're talking. it's frustrating, not so much because adam's being difficult (he understands why he wouldn't want to associate with him), but because andyr has no idea what to do about it. the last time he'd tried to do any kind of repair to social relationships was with teenagers, and even then, he'd been a sweet kid. not many people had problems with him in high school.

and now there's this 18 year old who hates him for getting naked with his boyfriend, understandably. it isn't as if andyr didn't know what he was doing, and like he'd thought before, he should've been the one in control enough to stop it before it got too far. all of his instincts and natural leanings tell him to just drop this shit and move on, but that isn't an option, not if he plans on keeping ronan as a friend.

god, why is he so fucking bad at being a person? ]

Well... when did he leave? You didn't see him go?

gross vengeance, cw: gore, dismemberment, desecrating the dead

[deconstruct]

[ a handful of hours after andyr's been removed from the gas clouds on floor two, he still hasn't bathed, old, dried blood still caked across his clothes, his arms, and his face, stuck in his hair, cracked across his hands. he spends that time putting his mind back together, and after that, going back over the details, deciding how it'd happened to begin with. it all points to one source.

kavinsky.

andyr can't kill him, he knows that, and hardly wants to give him something he doesn't particular care about suffering through either way. he can't torture him, because he's staked out in the center of camp on the fourth floor, and the screams would rouse everyone to rush in and play hero. what andyr settles on, is a gift. since kavinsky'd been so eager to drive andyr into the darkest corners of his mind, but hadn't gotten to go there with him, maybe he can bring some of it to him.

it takes a return to the second floor, after andyr's found a proper gas mask. what he takes is a hunting knife, the rebar he'd picked up before, and some blankets. thankfully most have already picked through this level, and it's empty enough that no one's around to see what desecration andyr's visiting upon the corpses that had played such a vital role in his nightmare earlier. it takes another couple hours to get everything he's decided he needs, and head back to camp. with a couple blankets pulled over both himself and what he carries with him, andyr makes his way quickly through the tents, making a beeline for kavinsky's after being sure he's inside. ]

You know what the saddest part was? [ Andyr's announcing to him loudly, once he's ducked inside the tent, and tossed the blankets off his person, still soaked in blood head to toe, if not more so now, fresh crimson (likely from some wound he'd made himself somewhere) painted across his lips. ] You never got to see what I was actually doing.

[ meaning, seeing what andyr was seeing. watching him put a hand through someone's stomach and pull out pieces of their ribcage. or bite chunks of throat out. or smash someone's head into a wall so hard it dented their face. or this:

the rebar comes out from behind Andyr's back, now decorated with several decapitated, partly decomposed heads, the now sharpened end of the bar had been kabobed through - from one temple to the opposite. andyr holds it forth proudly, a grin on his lips pulled back to show white, too sharp teeth, the heads only inches from kavinsky's face, before spiking it down through the luxurious mattress, into the metal floor, speared in like a stake. but that's not all, folks. he has another present - out of another blanket folded in like a bag, andyr drags out a heavy, twined loop of what appears to be human intestines. he took time on this, okay? as if he's a hawaiian girl in a grass skirt welcoming mainland tourists in at an airport with a lei, andyr lifts it up and puts it over kavinsky's head to rest on his shoulders, pressing it up close to his neck, which he then grabs far too tightly to be any kind of congenial.

two kisses - one to each cheek, wet with warm blood, that make a sick, squelching sound as he pops his lips after each. ] Thanks for the trip, sweetheart.

[pillz]

[<:/

kavinsky had been having a medium day. he had spent most of it trying to dream stuff he thought would get j to sleep with him again. the first iteration of the kennedy birthday dress came out with an extra neck hole, somehow, like he thought of her as a two-headed beast instead of a hot boy. which, you know. misgendering is terrible, but he's not actually under the impression that j has more than one head. the booze he made after, he ended up drinking himself. the steak he dreamt tasted funny. he wasn't sure what was wrong; he'd forgotten how beef is supposed to taste, maybe, or he was (uncharacteristically) overthinking it.

and then andyr happens. andyr happens so much. the first thing kavinsky notices is the smell; the second, that it's andyr. third, that andyr, who is very smelly, is coming closer and closer. lizard brain kicks in. kavinsky starts to crawl backward like a crayfish, but then there's a piece of metal stabbed into his bed between his legs and kisses landing squishy on his cheeks and entrails around his neck. he doesn't think it's the worst party he's ever been to, but it is probably the worst he's been in in the particular sexless subcategory of parties.

he doesn't move the moment after andyr's lips part from his cheek, leaving their fetid residue. eyes unblinking, shoulders rigid underneath the oozing garland of intestines, hollow chest flat, motionless. and then he blinks, his stare clicking fractionally over to study andyr's face. there is one deeply strange moment, that kavinsky accidentally falls out of himself, out of the crystallized hold of circumstance, out of the inarguable sequence of causation that's forged this event. out of hate and rage. for a moment, he's outside of himself and looking at this situation-- the gorey mess of a man in front of him. he thinks, in a different world, he would have liked to hit that.

i mean who are we kidding. he'd hit it anyway. it's just strange to think— andyr could have been us instead of them, with him instead of against him. but it's a fleeting thought; it doesn't matter. working alone is like gravity. predictable physics. it might kill him someday, but for now, he isn't jumping.]

My pleasure, [he says finally. his voice sounds nasal because he's holding his breath. he's tasted and smelled some foul shit before, but this is its own category. his eyes are narrow. thoughtful.] You gonna make out or fuck off?

[deconstruct]

[ for a long, still moment, andyr doesn't move, doesn't answer the question, only tightens his hands around kavinsky's throat minutely, feeling more and more of his pulse thrumming just under delicate skin, the bone of his spine just below it, so easy to start cracking apart.

when he comes to a decision, the smile that flashes is an ugly thing, lips pulled back far enough to show canines that look more like roughly sharpened shark teeth these days, with a pink tint across them, from blood still sitting in his mouth. maybe he'd bit into his cheek or the inside of a lip at some point.

kavinsky only has a few seconds to examine it, because andyr's apparently chosen the former - make out. his lips slam into the boy's roughly, in a kiss that feels nothing like a kiss ought to, and only tries at the vague idea of it for a small handful of seconds, before those teeth sink into kavinsky's lower lip, hard, and Andyr's head jerks to the side, and back.

the self cultivated fangs leave a set of nasty gashes in kavinsky's lip, the worst being a split straight through, as if a shallow piercing had been violently ripped from its mooring, pulling apart the lip it clung to on the way out. it leaves a pool of kavinsky's blood in andyr's mouth, tasting metallic and somehow sour (though that's more psychosomatic than anything else), dribbling from a corner of his lips.

stepping back, he spits the entire mouthful of it out at him, to spray across kavinsky's cheek, before moving to take his leave. so, he decided to do both, really.

in another world, yes, they could've been on each other's side. in his world, where this is the norm, and the andyr that ronan and steve and ahab see is the exception to the rule, they could've resonated with each other, perhaps. but kavinsky had to go and touch something that andyr's decided is his. ]

[pillz]

[ironic. kavinsky sees that the opposite is true.

but then some asshole bites a hole in his face, and then he probably has bigger things to worry about. agony, for one. infection, for another. he'd known to wear a gas mask when he went to the corpse level, and having this gross shit rubbed into a fresh new open wound isn't helping him get anything but gangrene.

not that these thoughts sound nearly that clinical in his head, of course. mostly it's a sequence of swears-- that don't quite make it into the air because his mouth fucking hurts and now he's goign to medbay because he wants to fix his beautiful face. he needs to fix his beautiful face. he'd probably do okay with a joker or phantom of the opera deal, with insanity to match, but given his druthers, he's going to go with the incredible medical0 technology offered here at camp.

why are lesbians so angry, he wonders. and that's the last salient thing, as he kicks the speared head over on his bed.]

threesome at the med tent + a dragon + an almost-corpse + unfortunate staff

[nightmarist]

[Somehow, Ronan's the first of the group to arrive. It may have something to do with his long legs, or his panic, or both in combination. As soon as he gets to the tent, he drops Kavinsky's dream familiar carelessly onto the ground. It's still awake, which means Kavinsky isn't dead yet, and thank god thank god thank god for that.

Ronan immediately gets to work, extracting Kavinsky's unconscious body from his PacDisc and hauling him onto the nearest bed. From that alone, it feels impossible to Ronan that Kavinsky's even still alive. With the bones Ronan crushed, Kavinsky's a ragdoll, limbs bending in all the wrong directions and slipping around like nothing's quite solid beneath his skin anymore.

He could almost feel bad about it. If Kavinsky hadn't planted a bomb in Adam's body.

Ronan's scream is snarling and furious:]

Someone fucking help him.

[He doesn't care what happens next, as long as Kavinsky's heart keeps beating. There's obviously no pretending this was some accident, no covering it up with a rock slide when he suddenly needs Kavinsky alive instead of dead. But he's not going to flee the scene until someone tells him Kavinsky - and therefore Adam - will live through this.]

[unaffluent]

[ Adam is still worried because his chest is still unfortunately beeping. At least it means that Kavinsky isn't dead, at the moment, but he feels like he's putting Andyr at risk not to mention anyone at the med tent who might try to help him. He's near tears again when he overhears Ronan as they arrive.

That's not how he wants to greet him so he stops short of entering, which probably will draw a weird look from Andyr. Not everyone is as awesome as you are, Andyr!!!

He takes a few deep breaths, maybe he should make a run for it because Ronan will want to be too close and if Kavinsky dies... ]

[deconstruct]

[ he does get a weird look, and then an exasperated on, and then andyr walking behind his back, putting his hands on the backs of adam's shoulders, and literally walking him through the med tent entrance. ]

You don't have time for this. Come on.

[ he can guess, though, what adam have been concerned about, and the second he sees ronan, andyr points a finger to him, ordering: ] Don't hug him. You'll freak him out.

[ after which, andyr turns his head to the rest of the area and yells: ] Adrien! You're about to have someone die and someone explode in your tent, so get over here!

[prorenataa]

[ Though Medical hadn't been bothering with the tent as a regular thing, it would seem that today it was up. Who knows, maybe Adrien was cataloging the larger pieces of equipment.

He watched as first Ronan and ... that wrecked body looked like Kavinsky, and then Andyr with someone he vaguely recalled seeing though never met, came crashing into the relative peace and quiet. The doctor was already in motion towards Kavinsky when Ronan and Andyr's yells seemed to crash on top of each other. ]

For the love of fuck, someone take a breath and stop bellowing. [ He snapped, stepping up beside the body on the bed and ... for Fate's sake. Where had they found this level of destructive mischief?

He'd have to ask about that later. For the moment, he snapped his fingers at Andyr without looking back. ]

Andyr the crate over in the corner by the flap, bring it here.

dream theefs only

[nightmarist]

[It seems insane that Ronan should be allowed anywhere near Kavinsky after what happened. But everyone's got better things to do than guard some scrawny moron with something like thirty fractured bones. When Ronan hears that Kavinsky's finally awake, he waltzes right in.

He's unarmed, anyway, save his actual arms. Formidable weapons, honestly. However, he doesn't intend to use them in punishing Kavinsky further. Ronan moves slowly and comes to a halt at the foot of Kavinsky's bed. He still has murder in his eyes, but that's not particularly unusual for Ronan.]

You're going to get that thing out of him.

[This isn't a request.]

[pillz]

[in the meantime, there's less murder than one would expect in kavinsky's. mostly because all of the first twenty-four hours will been spent getting laser stitching going, stopping the bleeding, setting his arteries back to rights. they won't get on his bones til later; adrien had refused to begin work on them until kavinsky awoke.

which means that they're still all broken, if set now the old-fashioned way; he looks like a mummy strung up in the bed.

the dream thief is awake, though. drugged up. the pain in his body feels far away, but he knows it's there. his eyes trail slowly toward ronan and almost seem to miss his mark. he's silent awhile. when he answers, he doesn't ask the question:] Why didn't you wanna be with me? [his voice is rusted over.] What's the real reason.

[nightmarist]

[Ronan's eyes narrow at the question and he cracks a few knuckles audibly, debating the merits of putting his fist through Kavinsky's face after all. They cannot possibly still be having this discussion. This can't be the reason Kavinsky drove him to near-suicide and continues to threaten Adam's life. It's too absurd and too pointless.]

You tried to kill my brother, you psycho piece of shit.

[pillz]

[if kavinsky notices ronan is getting more murdery-looking, he doesn't let it on. he remains as difficult to read as ever. sleepy or bored or super on drugs; it's ever hard to tell with him.]

Before that.