[kavinsky laughs. the sound seems slightly dislocated, but this time, it's his laugh, snaky and low in the air. boy register. kind of hard to hear, though, under the shrill pitch of the saw.] Cooperate, shithead, [he says.] I just want one.
[his pupils are blown out huge. as big as sylar's. you could excise their eyeballs and switch them and they'd look the same. a tiny, millimeter-thin brown ring hugged tight around black, light-eating pits of myopic darkness. kavinsky had thought about doing it sober, in order to remember. in order to know what he was doing, maybe. but all of the motivating factors, seriously considered, merely made him want to do cocaine more.
and well. when a cokehead wants to do cocaine, a cokehead will do cocaine.
the blade bites into sylar's finger. and it's anticlimactic, really. the shouting and terror and accidental tears, which only then register the reality— that none of the ones that sylar had shed earlier had been false. the rattle of wood and metal. kavinsky watches the finger-bone splinter and then pop with a strange detachment, and then finds himself watching himself with an even stranger detachment. like he's standing out to the side of them. regarding the spectacle in third person. a cameraman.
it's some stupid movie shit. not quite the music videos that kavinsky used to stylize his life after. a different genre. the creepy clinch of male bodies in the chair, fluids and bolted steel and bald concrete everywhere. jesse off in the back. screams that aren't. pleasure.
distantly, he thinks that he looks kinda hot. good job, he tells himself. you'll always have that going for you.]
no subject
[his pupils are blown out huge. as big as sylar's. you could excise their eyeballs and switch them and they'd look the same. a tiny, millimeter-thin brown ring hugged tight around black, light-eating pits of myopic darkness. kavinsky had thought about doing it sober, in order to remember. in order to know what he was doing, maybe. but all of the motivating factors, seriously considered, merely made him want to do cocaine more.
and well. when a cokehead wants to do cocaine, a cokehead will do cocaine.
the blade bites into sylar's finger. and it's anticlimactic, really. the shouting and terror and accidental tears, which only then register the reality— that none of the ones that sylar had shed earlier had been false. the rattle of wood and metal. kavinsky watches the finger-bone splinter and then pop with a strange detachment, and then finds himself watching himself with an even stranger detachment. like he's standing out to the side of them. regarding the spectacle in third person. a cameraman.
it's some stupid movie shit. not quite the music videos that kavinsky used to stylize his life after. a different genre. the creepy clinch of male bodies in the chair, fluids and bolted steel and bald concrete everywhere. jesse off in the back. screams that aren't. pleasure.
distantly, he thinks that he looks kinda hot. good job, he tells himself. you'll always have that going for you.]