"..... I don't care what you do." Foster's tone is dead. Blunt, anaesthetised with indifference. There's no flicker or spark, not even the faintest light in his chest at Taako's offer ("promise") of a real, delivered death. His own death--its time, its method--is empty. Meaningless. Taako could kill him next week, or tomorrow, or at the end of his contract and it wouldn't matter.

Taako could kill him right now and it wouldn't matter.

And he wouldn't care.

No--he does care.

It... is this anger?

Maybe. Maybe not.

He really doesn't care.

He had his chance. And he wasted... he lost... the chance he'd spent his entire life, his entire rotting, disintegrating existence trying to find, to provoke. He had a chance, one shining, brilliant opportunity, his narrow margin, his hope--

He feels disgusting, loathsome for thinking there was hope, for even wanting--

But it still feels like--it still feels like that was hope, and that's what disgusts him the most about it.

At this point--

"It doesn't matter. Just let me rot."

Who cares.

"I'm most of the way there already."