Hawthorne’s taken to walking around with a syringe of oxytocendorphin jammed into his skull.
“Jesus!” says Senji.
“What?” says Hawthorne, following his gaze, trying to crane his head around to get a look at the back of his own head. “Oh! Right. Say, would you mind giving that plunger a little tap?”
“Fine,” grumbles Hawthorne, backing up until it bumps the wall. “Oooh,” he adds, eyes glazing.
“Look, I just streamlined the process. The old way was a clumsy cargo cult!”
“What process?” says Senji.
“Love is addiction,” says Hawthorne. “Addiction is love.”
Senji has nothing to say.