Sometimes human-shaped things cropped up, but they weren't people, even when he brought them home with him and kept them without permission. They were figments of his imagination given enough flesh and blood and voice that they would pass any Turing test with flying colors. But they weren't people, because Kavinsky slept alone.
Only one other person should've been able to enter his dreams, and for all he knows, that boy is dead. He's long gone, at least, not part of the Nest, not near enough to Kavinsky to start the nasty business of subconscious infiltration.
But it is the Nest fucking with him. It is that Hivemind turning can't into shouldn't but gonna do it anyway. Someone's inside his hideyhole. Inside those labyrinthine corridors of chrome that make up his dreamscape most nights since he was spacenapped.
And that someone has wings. And that someone is pulling him close. Not formless, but not as whole as Kavinsky, who has practice at this. Who keeps all his limbs where they ought to be and his mind centered.
He's lucid. Sam--because of course it's Sam--is not.]
Shit, can't even leave me alone when we're sleeping? You've got a real complex, sweetheart, seriously, do we have a doctor on board to look at that?
cw: what is this mess, also dubious sexual situations with a barely not-minor
Sometimes human-shaped things cropped up, but they weren't people, even when he brought them home with him and kept them without permission. They were figments of his imagination given enough flesh and blood and voice that they would pass any Turing test with flying colors. But they weren't people, because Kavinsky slept alone.
Only one other person should've been able to enter his dreams, and for all he knows, that boy is dead. He's long gone, at least, not part of the Nest, not near enough to Kavinsky to start the nasty business of subconscious infiltration.
But it is the Nest fucking with him. It is that Hivemind turning can't into shouldn't but gonna do it anyway. Someone's inside his hideyhole. Inside those labyrinthine corridors of chrome that make up his dreamscape most nights since he was spacenapped.
And that someone has wings. And that someone is pulling him close. Not formless, but not as whole as Kavinsky, who has practice at this. Who keeps all his limbs where they ought to be and his mind centered.
He's lucid. Sam--because of course it's Sam--is not.]
Shit, can't even leave me alone when we're sleeping? You've got a real complex, sweetheart, seriously, do we have a doctor on board to look at that?