O6 👶 OTHER POISON DEVILS

[pillz]

WHO: Joseph Kavinsky & CR
WHERE: All over the place! Evil knows no geographical constraints!!
WHEN: Throughout October 2016
WHAT: Non-plot log (not directly involving the three mini-events), catch-all for October. Feel free to boop me on pp/pm if I'm forgetting something we were going to do!
WARNINGS: R for offensive/triggering language (racist, sexist, etc.), sexual vulgarity, probable mention of IC death, drug use, underage drinking, etc.

Comments

closed to jack;

[pillz]

[they're at a bar in maurtia falls and there is a college guy with his tongue in kavinsky's ear. ordinarily, he would be into it: the stupid coral choker, the tan, the surfboard scab healing on his elbow, the music pulsing through the overhead sound system, cologne mixing with the burn of cocaine and dark liquor in the back of his nose. back home they had starfuckers; here, people shark for imports. ordinarily, it'd be kavinsky's idea of a good night.

but tonight, he gets up and hits the guy with the stool.

two minutes later, the bartender is shouting, threatening to call the police. the college guy, bruised up, has tumbled out onto the sidewalk outside of the doors, an arm thrown up over his head. one of the bouncers had tried to hit kavinsky with a bat. when the bulgarian boy emerges out of the doorway, he's holding the splintered half of it. he sneers.]

[neverdied]

[The night has been a whole lot less interesting for Jack, idle cleaning followed up by sleeping and, inevitably, the urge to wander. His walks don't always take him anywhere particular and he doesn't always go to the same city, but he likes Maurtia Falls, likes the streets at night and the characters he can come across. Even the locals around these parts can strike some level of interest, not the mention this city still serves as one of the best proven feeding grounds for him, with shady characters and plenty of spots to pick a fight. He's not after a meal tonight but he'll defend himself if he has to.

There's a 24/7 diner he's visited before that he decides upon, a vague thought that settles into the back of his mind and keeps his feet dragging vaguely in one direction, giving him a purpose for his outing.

He soon comes across another purpose, activity in a bar he's approaching that slows his pace, a fight that looks to be spilling out onto the street. It'd be wise to avoid it, he thinks, about to give it a wide birth before he spots a familiar figure emerging from the thudding noise of music and voices.

Of course. Of course Jack can't just have a night of peace. It might still be possible for him to quickly pass by without getting noticed, and yet his feet reluctantly drag him to the small crowd outside that bar, hands in pockets as he watches, eyebrows lifted.

Again? Seriously?]

[pillz]

[yes. again. seriously.

kavinsky looms over the mundane college boy, who is doing a very appropriate amount of shrinking. the bar owner is hanging back, wary of the way that the baseball bat had connected with kavinsky and shattered like glass. but he's yelling. the cops are on their way. and shouldn't you be doing something fucking useful with your powers like fighting extremis. others cheer, either drunk or easily convinced the guy on the ground had done something. both, maybe.

kavinsky ignores him. he steps up to the college kid. then something makes him look up. or rather, the lack of something-- the small zone of quiet where jack stands amid the hubbub.

kavinsky winks. and then, not unlike the way he'd shot jesse to see what jack would do, he aims a kick at is victim's chest.]

[neverdied]

[It's an interesting watch, he'll admit. There's a fire in the kid that Jack can associate with, a level of ego and psychopathy that he's managed to control within himself after thousands of years of growing the fuck up, dousing the flames of volatility. Maybe one day Kavinsky will decide that violence can be easily countered by bingo and sleep, but until that day, he's stuck beating the shit out of college boys in the street.

He doesn't interfere with the physicality of it all, watches the kick connect with zero concern for the stoner on the ground, but what he does care about is the level of attention this draws. A drunken tussle will be forgotten by most in the morning, a brutal murder won't.]

We're leaving. [He finally barks, wavering somewhere between a stern father and a guy that's going to break your fucking legs if you argue, son.]

[pillz]

[and like a rabid puppy distracted from the corpse of a dead squirrel by the companionship of a grown pitbull, kavinsky refocuses.

he takes one step toward jack, and then stops, looking back at the human wheezing on the ground. college kid curls up, stares past kavinsky at jack. please mister, say his big beautiful human eyes. take him away.

kavinsky doesn't kick him again. the truth is, he prefers pills and poison to hurt people, most of the time. the random ass-beating is fairly uncharacteristic of him. wandering around in the dark with dubious company, however, is actually a glorious return to form-- and that's what he decides, in the end, his skinny shoulders slouching comfortably. he dawdles toward jack, dropping the splintered half-bat from his fingers.

dinkadonkbonk.]

[neverdied]

[Good pup.

Good and bad, actually, because now Jack has the dawning realisation that he's got this kid approaching like he may be tagging along. It was probably a mistake using 'we' in his order, rookie error honestly.

At least the kid listened, didn't push it further or draw more effort from Jack than was needed, especially when they both already know from previous experience how that's likely to go. Shows he's got some intelligence amidst all that dumb ass bravado, maybe even some restraint.

Jack turns without another word and walks away, hands in his pockets. He doesn't look back to see if the kid stays at his side but the slightest tilt of his chin towards his shoulder might just display his interest, keeping an ear out for the extra set of footsteps. It's a subtle gesture, one that Kavinsky might not be attuned to, but it says he's aware of the presence and the possibility of company and he's not fully blocking the concept out just yet.]

[pillz]

[kavinsky has all kinds of restraint that doesn't look like actual restraint to anybody else. he can wait days to conduct a kidnapping, for example.

he patters after jack and stops looking back. in a few seconds, he lengthens his stride so that he's coming up next to the old man. his pupils are huge, practically eating into the sclera.] Hey, [he says.] Hey.

Most and least fucked up painful ways to kill a guy. Go.

[there is probably worse company somewhere in the world.]

NOW IN THE RIGHT PLACE; October 9; spoilers for TRK

[unguibusetrostro]

[Ronan has been a raven for four days.

It's easier, this way, to cope. It's easier because the emotions are a bit less like the edge of a sharp knife and more blunted. Gansey is gone. Adam is gone. Ronan isn't recovered from having the demon in his head and he isn't recovered from finding his mother's slaughtered corpse, and this didn't help him deal with any of those emotions.

When he's a bird it doesn't go away, but things simplify. He can scream and people throw shit but no one tells him he needs to grow up. He can make a mess and people don't judge in the same way. It's just a bird. And he can fly. That helps. Sometimes when he's flying, he can almost, almost, almost forget.

Almost.

He didn't mean to see Kavinsky. But the more the hours tick by the more that Kavinsky is on his mind. K is good for a handful of things - most of them illegal, all of the odious - and one of them is a strange catharsis. He's horrible. But he's horrible in a way that makes Ronan feel better. Sometimes.

When he hates the world enough. When he hates himself, especially.

He sees Kavinsky now, when he's flying, and lands a few feet away, eyes him. He's never thought of Kavinsky as big, but to a raven, he's huge.

He caws.]

Asshole.

[He still has trouble with flight sometimes, in weird winds, but he has excellent control of his words. The few he possesses. They are almost all curse words.]

[pillz]

[at first, kavinsky isn't sure what he heard. well, he's sure what he heard but he thought it might be directed elsewhere-- he is definitely an asshole, but he's also definitely not the only person with a claim to that word. besides, it wasn't a voice he recognized, even with the weirdly intense case of strep throat whoever-it-was was obviously experiencing.

he has a second thought though, a moment of doubt. a weird roach-scuttle of fear down his spine, through the cocaine. it could be gabriel. who knows what the fuck gabriel can do. so he slows his stride, head turning slowly. he makes himself breathe even.

and there's

nothing? he reaches around to the gun in the back of his pants, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.]

[unguibusetrostro]

[Ronan watches that reach, but there's a bit of fearlessness in him - not to mention the fact that he's running on lack of personal care right now.

He hops a bit closer.]

Assss [croaaaaaak] hole.

[The croak in the middle sounds almost like a door is opening. Ronan actually likes the way the raven speaks, the way it's not the same as human speech, the infinite variations that are easy and weird.]

[pillz]

[is it a bird, is it a plane.

it's definitely a motherfucking bird. kavinsky's right eyebrow starts to climb slowly up his forehead. he takes a step closer before stopping, his head bending back to study the creature in the tree. for a moment, he mistakes ronan quite understandably for one jonathan crane, not that kavinsky had known the man by name, exactly.

but how many imports can turn into asshole black birds, anyway.]

Yeah, [he agrees. and then he pulls out his pistol, cocking it in the same motion. sights up his arm, and fires.

(—not quite center mass. it's hard to tell whether it's hesitation or nerves or deliberate consideration of forced psychiatry, the possibility of a month-long incarceration. but the muzzle cocks a fraction of an inch to the left.)]

[unguibusetrostro]

[It helps that he has bird reflexes, and also he's not stupid. That, combined with Kavinsky's slight tugging to the left, means that while it was close, no cigar. Ronan launches into the air and aims for Kavinsky's eyes, which, by the way, Chainsaw is also aiming for.

Fortunately for K, the birds don't actually get talons in eyes. They just menace around his head, cawing, both of them screaming.

And instead of landing again, they fly easy circles around him when they're satisfied, well above his head.]

Aaassssss



hole!

[Now Chainsaw is doing it too, mimicking Ronan.]

[pillz]

[two birds. fucking birds. kavinsky puts an arm up to fend off his beautiful hairstyle, which is actually the only part of him that is vulnerable to bird claws. he'dve been grossed out, of course, if any creature had gotten their claws on his eyes, whether or not there was damage.

he swings the pistol around, tracing birds in the air. fires again, up into the sky. this close, the discharge is painfully loud-- lesser birds go flurrying off in the distance, alarmed by the chaos. having quite decided that jonathan crane (if he knew the guy's name) deserves a faceful of bird lead, at this point, there is no pulling to either side now. winging the creature (no pun intended) wouldn't be enough.]

--cking cunt birds—!

closed to matthew; (dated october 31)

[pillz]

[fall in heropa is a lot like summer in heropa because florida. muggy and fuckin' hot, prone to torrential downpours.

but matthew lynch's luck has held out today. he made it all the way through his classes with minimal wandering around in his head today, and the thunderstorm that had swept over xavier's school had cleared up only a half-hour before the bell rang. the kids who have their own cars had to dodge puddles in the parking lot, but the porter is within walking distance easy enough, and there's a rainbow going over the bakery across the street as he leaves the institute's grounds. if he doesn't take it as a sign, there's an actual sign in the window too:

chocoweek
free cakepop with purchase of hot chocolate

it's been a good monday, for a monday.

maybe too, he doesn't notice the grey car parked down the street, the white-rimmed sunglasses perched on the gaunt face of the driver.]

[dreamkid]

[ Now he would have noticed a white car, the white car, specifically--but there's nothing remarkable enough about this grey one to catch his attention, especially in comparison with the rainbow. Matthew stops right outside the institute and raises his phone up to take a picture of the sky, a childlike smile tugging at his mouth, and then lingers on the sidewalk for a few more moments, texting his photographic masterpiece (it's not) to someone with the air of a boy who has all the time in the world.

Just as he's about to cross the street a handful of other students appear, one of them clapping him on the shoulder, all of them crowding around, and he almost disappears from view save for the top of his head, his curls wild in the humidity. At one point his unmistakable shout of laughter echoes down the street, he points across the way to the bakery, there's some grinning and shaking of heads from the other boys, friendly goodbyes, and then dispersion, leaving him to cross alone.

Which he does, because he saw that sign this morning and Ronan did not dream up the kind of kid to pass up on a free cakepop. ]

[pillz]

[the grey car pulls out of its parking space, smooth, a little slow, easing into the street. there's no traffic to speak of at the moment, which is fortunate. kavinsky had not been entirely sure where matthew would go, and it's yet to occur to the bulgarian mobster piece of trash to create bullets or projectiles that can actually go around corners.

maybe someday, once upon another nightmare.

the shopkeeper sees matthew coming through the glass, and she opens the door first. look at him. blond and lovely, smiling at nothing because of rainbows.] Happy Monday, dear, [she says. she has salt-and-pepper hair, and a peppermint-striped apron.] You're from that ImPort school, aren't you?

[dreamkid]

[ He looks at her and BAM, another smile lights up his face, radiating exuberance. She seems nice, and she has cakepops. He still doesn't notice the car creeping up the street. ]

Yeah!

[ There's no hesitation in his answer. Matthew has been spared most all anti-imPort sentiment, outside of The Philadelphia Incident. Generally people find it difficult to dislike him to his face.

Generally. ]

Is it still chocoweek?

[ Ma'am, he is here to do business and then be shot with experimental dream drugs. ]

did you want matthew to see kavinsky, i cant remember what we talked about :(a

[pillz]

[she'd be more concerned if she knew all about it. but she doesn't, so all she says is,] It sure is, little man. Come on in. [she steps aside so that he can enter.

it smells like sugar and spice and everything nice. literally. all those things. a redolence reminiscent of autumn baking and busy kitchens, holiday spirit in the most edible sense. the woman navigates around the counter to where the hot milk pitcher is sitting, and their assortment of chocolate syrups, and their dazzling display of candied just-about-everything-you-can-imagine. it may be florida, but in here, the season is well on its way.] If you don't tell anyone, [she says, taken in immediately by matthew's savage charm,] I'll give you two cake pops with your chocolate milk. Two dollars, please. What size do you want, baby?

[in the meantime, the innoucuous but creepy grey car pulls up outside, just across the street, amid x-files music.]

[dreamkid]

[ He practically bounces inside at her invitation, the door swinging closed behind him, though he can still be seen through the wide front windows, deeply inhaling the delicious smells inside the bakery.

This was a great decision and nothing bad could possibly come from it. ]

Whoa, thanks! [ He beams at her offer, not minding the little pet names for a moment, even from a complete stranger. Truth be told, he gets free stuff without asking fairly often, so he's not surprised--but it never ceases to delight him. Easily pleased, that's how Ronan made him. ] I'll have that one, please, [ he tells her, pointing to the largest size and sweeping his wrist under the little machine at the counter, which scans his tattoo for payment. A minute later he's balancing the cup and his chosen cake pops in his hands, eagerly promising to bring some of his friends next time.

But he can't stay, he's got chores and homework to get to. He manages to wave at her somehow as he leaves, meandering a bit down the sidewalk in his dreamy way and noticing nothing but how good this cakepop is. ]

▸ oct 12th*

[mantlepieces]

( *feel free to fudge the date if the timing ain't good for it! & I hope this is all good, happy to edit if necessary!! )

[ It's been some time since Kavinsky last texted him, and Reggie let it sit this long for a couple reasons; 1) he doesn't like to come off too desperate or lonely if he can help it, and Kavinsky in particular is someone Reggie -- for some reason -- would be repulsed to have think of him that way, so hard to get is the only card he has left to play or to hold; and 2)... frankly, the time slipped him by before Reggie even noticed it happening. This time of year is hard for him, hard for a lot of reasons, but ever since he's been back, his mind is...

Something's different, anyway. It's not what it used to be, which is to say something Reggie could mostly feel like he had control over, because now more often than not it feels like nothing is actually "real," nothing makes sense, and Reggie finds himself caring less and less about that.

As long as he knows he's real.

So, casually (or at least meant to appear that way), he shoots off a text: ]

hey man u free
I'm in the area
& figured I could drop by, I'm assuming the invites still open

[pillz]

yes sweetheart come on by

[the response came pretty quick. and when reggie gets there, the gate is carelessly open, the home within it vast for a house but small for a mansion, and lit dimly from within the blockade of closed blinds. it's a mess of sleek white and wood paneling, stone below, all sharp corners that somehow look both light and elegant and oppressively modern. moneyed. it's too big for one person, never mind a shitty child, but if you said that out loud to him, kavinsky would probably make a dirty joke out of it.



even from down the short walk, music is audible. blasting from a monstrous stereo in the living room, bulgarian vulgarities and a dense, pulsing beat reverberating through the humid florida air. apart from a scattering of empty liquor bottles and a cigarette graveyard in the ash tray, the living room looks about deserted. there's a faint redolence of bleach hanging in the air.]

[mantlepieces]

[ Thankfully since it's text, Reggie doesn't have to respond to that, which is good because he hates reacting to things that might embarrass him.

Instead he simply goes straight to the provided address, and once there he takes a good couple of moments to appreciate the apparent luxury of the residence. God, why isn't he living in a place like this? He should really do something about that, he's still been stuck in the same house they assigned him when he got here because, as someone who's never really had to make adult decisions about his living arrangements before, it just hadn't really occurred to him.

Reggie goes in through the open gate, grimacing a little as the volume of the music assaults his already moderately aching head, but walks inside nonetheless, looking around for signs of... well, life. ]

Kavinsky? You around...?

[ Ugh, something smells weird. He's not about to stumble over a dead body, is he? ]

[pillz]

[nnno.

maybe? no.]

That you, princess?

[yes. kavinsky's voice crashes up from -- downstairs, unmistakably. down the hall, there's a small door situated at the bottom of a descending flight of steps. it looks like the entry to an underground garage or the basement, which is exactly what it is. misappropriated for a dream thief's nefarious new plans, of course, but the original layout was much like an ordinary house in that way. the door is ajar.

behind it, kavinsky is sitting in a mess of what seems much like a laboratory. three workbenches cluttered with a chaos of equipment, most of it ballistics-related, from a row of differently-shaped darts to an odd stack of pistol magaines. some sort of dummy stationed by one wall, and a faintly odorous side of pig hanging from a ceiling chain in a different corner. the edge of one table is decorated with liquor bottles.

and a fair bit of powder tracery. kavinsky looks up, his pupils massive, his smile unsteady but full of teeth.]

[mantlepieces]

[ Reggie's answer back is quick and uncertain: ]

Yeah...? [ Though he falls briefly quiet again, following Kavinsky's voice to the stairs and hesitating before he begins to descend them. Then he adds, or clarifies: ] I mean, it's Reggie.

[ And then, once he is downstairs, it's hard to know where to direct his attention first. It looks like the workroom of one of those survivalists that stocks up on guns, batteries, canned food and whatever else kind of shit, or someone building a bomb. ]

What's... um. So, what's going on? Been keeping busy, huh?

[ He sounds more curious than nervous, though. ]

[pillz]

[it's the workroom of an invincible child magician who's planning to avenge himself on his recent murderer, but to be honest, reggie's guesses are pretty close.]

Fuck yeah.

[he has been. it's not like he can sleep right anyway. however miserable his private anxiety is, kavinsky looks well enough as he stands up, selecting a liquor bottle at random to carry over to his guest. he presses it companionably into reggie's hands, forgetting to ask if the other boy prefers beer. or possibly not forgetting. there is no doubt, a small subroutine in the ugly machine of kavinsky's consciousness, that is aware that reggie would loathe the embarrassment of asking to drink something weaker. impression management, all edgelords are preoccupied with it.]

Working on weapons. You wanna try one, Mantle?