[OOC] Lost Carnival Contact

[control_freak]

✆CHANNEL FREQUENCY: 206.18999
DESCRIPTION: If Foster hasn't lost his walkie-talkie, he'll answer you! If he has........ uh. Well. It wouldn't be the first time.

✉MAIL BOX LOCATION: There's no mailbox???
DESCRIPTION: Foster never checks his mail, assumes he won't get any, and is automatically unhappy to receive any on the rare occasion such a thing might actually happen. But you're welcome to leave it on his doorstep. Maybe his roommate will get it.

Comments

Post Legs

[waitingforplayer2]

[ Chiaki feels like she has more energy than ever.

It's probably the legs. Hopping around takes more energy than simply walking, and to compensate, she's been eating a lot more. Drinking more coffee and soda, too. That seems to jazz her up enough to get the height she needs for a decent spring.

But that also makes her restless fingers more restless. Twiddling her thumbs while manning the Gamer's Circle isn't enough anymore. She really can't take it.

So finally, after a long time of deliberating, she's knocking on Foster's trailer door. ]

[control_freak]

[Foster is startled by the knock--less because of the knock and more because sudden noises always startle him. He assumes, reasonably, that whoever it is came for his roommate and not him, so when he approaches the door, he's bracing himself not to receive an actual visitor, but to apologise for the surely crushing disappointment on the other end when they discover that he is the only one here.

When he opens it, though... he stares, blankly, for about an entire second.]

Oh.

[His eyelids drop a little, and his voice becomes audibly more detached.]

It's you.

[waitingforplayer2]

Mm.

[ She nods. Stands her ground, because...

If she lets him do this to her, then he'll do it to anyone else. ]

I'm here for my gaming console, please.

[control_freak]

[He blinks. Slowly.]

No.

[Honestly?? What did she expect, he wonders. He can't even appreciate the effort or courage it took her to ask, because he's really nothing at all. Confronting him is akin to confronting a small, wingless insect. Even those deathly afraid of bugs would find little to fear in a single maggot, squirming helplessly on the sidewalk.]

[waitingforplayer2]

[ She frowns. ]

You said it was a waste. I think you're wrong. I thought we could talk about that.

[ Conversation options:

> Keep the conversation going. Look for a way in. ]

[control_freak]

[............]

.... I don't want to presume to know more than you do. Please understand, I didn't do it for me.

[... he hates it when people try to do this. People actually try to argue with him like he's some kind of... equal, like they think his words have some weight equal to theirs.

But he's not budging. Even as he glances aside, the shape of his mouth tightens into an even thinner, more certain line.]

[waitingforplayer2]

[ He's not closing the door, either. ]

I don't want to do that, either. Everybody knows a little bit, right? You can't get all your quests or exposition from one NPC.

[ That... made sense in her head. ]

Did you do it for me?

Hmmmm DW deleted the icon I wanted to use here, awkward.

[control_freak]

[Wow. Wow. No.

This is making Foster actively uncomfortable now. He stiffens, his hand on the door--threatening, without even meaning to, to shut it in her face.]

..... you could say that.

[He feels like recoiling. Why can't she just accept his convictions instead of questioning his motives?]

[waitingforplayer2]

Why?

[ Still standing her ground. Not stepping forward, or back. (It's too hard to do that with these big dumb awkward rabbit feet anyway. ]

October 9th; phone call

[dontpokethat]

[For the past few days, there's been basically no word from Ginko - which isn't entirely new, since he does have a bad habit of forgetting to call people sometimes, but it doesn't usually stretch on for so long.

When he does call, he sounds kind of strained and nervous, and Foster may be able to pick up on the rumble of road noise in the background.]

Hey, Foster, uh-- where are you?

[control_freak]

That depends. Where are you?

[It's played off as joking, which is mostly true. But he has been kind of... tested lately, what with the fae and the... fae. So Ginko's protracted absence isn't great for his nerves--or rather, being reminded of it isn't great for his nerves?]

[dontpokethat]

I'm in my car, I'm on the way to the Sanctuary-- I'm sorry I didn't call or anything, I... things went wrong.

[That's kind of an understatement but anyway.]

[control_freak]

[Foster laughs--it's not even humourless, but it's not lighthearted either.]

Yeah, me too--

Wait, don't go to the Sanctuary.

Pull over or something.

[Don't argue with him, just do it.]

[dontpokethat]

Why not?

[He's not pulling over, though that might not be clear over the phone.]

[control_freak]

Because.

[Foster is impatient.]

It's a--a... what's the word. An epicentre.

The mages are fucking everywhere. They're pissing themselves about something. Demons are, too.

And fae.

[It's a lot more vitriolic than usual. Two weeks ago, he couldn't have given two fucks about the fae as long as they left him alone.

But then, therein lies the problem.]

You can't be stupid enough to say you haven't noticed.

[If you were stupid, Foster would not have continued treating you like a friend.]

The Sanctuary is--is too big a place with too many different kinds of magic. If anything's gonna explode, that's gonna be it.

[dontpokethat]

'Course I've noticed. If this crap weren't going on I wouldn't need to go there to begin with.

[Under normal circumstances, Ginko might consider Foster's argument. Maybe.

...Or he might not. But in this case, he definitely won't. If anything, the danger of the Sanctuary is just a reminder of how much he needs to make sure Steven gets out of there if he hasn't already.]

Look, with any luck I'll be in and out, alright?

[control_freak]

[Foster snorts.]

Luck.

[He's a lot more ticked that Ginko isn't listening to him than he's letting on.

He still doesn't understand exactly how he even has friends, but he knows it's their perception of him as easygoing that convinces them to stick around. He's pretty sure that it's because they don't think of it as a big deal that they usually seem to go with what he wants. And maybe it's true. Because when they don't, it's fine--it's easy to let it roll off his back. He genuinely doesn't care.

But times like this, when it does matter to him because he knows he's right, and none of them listen to him?

It makes him actually angry.

Which is... difficult to suppress, and harder still to know what to do with.]

Out as a corpse, maybe.

post-portland log

[tacosgay]

Taako has no idea how long it's been since the ritual; days, maybe. He's kept himself confined almost entirely to his bed, due largely to just how sore and exhausted the whole ritual mess left him. Though Steven, Zecora, and some fae successfully mended the bone and any torn muscle or tendons surrounding it, he's still sore and wrung out.

He's spent most of this time resting, spaced out, but a lot of his waking time has had him thinking over his and Foster's plans, and Foster in general-- what he'd learned about him during their time in Portland.

I'll remember that my brain's rotting.

It makes him feel sick to think about very much, the idea of that-- it's just plain gross, and creepy, to boot. And the idea that something like that is happening to you could definitely make a person hard to deal with. In Portland, Foster was different, like... clearer-headed, and he can't help but wonder if the Foster he talked to there is how Foster would be if his brain weren't fucking eating itself.

It's late at night when he finally makes himself stretch down to retrieve his radio from beside his bed, wincing at the fact that every movement still sends faint waves of ache over his core. He tunes it to Foster's personal wavelength, and sighs as he hits the button, speaking into it.

"Hey, Foster. You there?"

Day 138...............

[control_freak]

Foster's waking was... painful. Not in a physical sense, but in a psychological one. It came together in pieces; the realisation that he was alive, that he had been cheated, that he was alive, that he was back in his bed at the Carnival, that he was alive, that he had been cheated--!

But after his realisations, after the wreckage and grief and rage and vomiting the hollowness of not feeling any part of those emotions all over again, he just... lay in bed. It was a way to avoid confronting the rest of it. The people he'd have to see. The reactions he'd have to endure. The act, the crime, the sentence, the punishment, the state of being alive.

Taako's staticky, distorted voice is... a jarring disruption to his fugue, and it's immediately accompanied by a needleprick of token resentment.

But resentment is something, and stronger than apathy. He does pick up his walkie talkie.

"Yes. Why."

[tacosgay]

Yeah, that's basically the response he expected. But, hey, he answered, which means speaking to Taako has to mean at least something to him, right?

He's quiet for a moment before he speaks again; his tone is hushed and serious, focused, a rarity.

"How are you holding up?" He can pretty much imagine what this answer will be before he even asks the question, but asking seems like something he should do anyway.

[control_freak]

How is he holding up--

He wants to die.

But that isn't what happens, out loud or in his mind, not in the nucleus of the moment. Instead, he blanks, his brain simply blocking off his ability to think, and he starts to laugh--a hollow, miserable laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. He laughs at Taako's question, at how worthless this conversation is, at how tightly constricted his chest is and how raw his lungs, at how much he wants to die, at how much he hates even the act of breathing and laughing and speaking, at absolutely nothing to be completely honest, but he doesn't have anything else to say.

A couple of seconds after he starts--and even as he does--his eyes start to run with tears, and he manages to stop laughing, but it grows strained and more breathless before he cuts himself off.

Instead of grief, he voices anger.

"Why. What do you want."

[tacosgay]

Taako cringes at the sound of that laughter, the hollow pain in Foster's voice.

"... yeah, okay, I mean... ask a stupid question and all that. Uh. Listen, I'm bedridden right now because a fuckin' fae crushed my ribcage like a soda can, so I'm not able to do a whole lot else but just talk anyway, right?" He sighs, the gesture painful, a dull ache reminding him to be careful; his breath catches in his chest, and he lets it out even more slowly, through his teeth. "Besides, like... we were a team once, you know? Shit didn't work out, but we were still a team once, and you got pretty seriously wrecked, so I thought I'd check in and see how you're doing."

[control_freak]

Foster's mood cycles through suspicion, surprise, and rancour in equal measure; his disbelief at Taako's audacity is rooted in multiple factors, his anger in the memory of the way Taako backed down the instant his plans were challenged. Taako flinched first.

He has no idea what happened to get Taako's ribs so brutalised, and honestly? It's inconsequential. The fact that Taako is hurt at all is inconsequential. If anything, it's actually galling, insult on top of the injury he wishes would destroy him already. He begged for death and was denied even that. But Taako caved so completely that he not only tried to back out, he effectively prevented Foster himself from getting the only thing he wanted, and for this he was rewarded with more pain than Foster could merit even when asking?

His breathing can be heard, ragged and wet.

There's still an open wound in his side from the ice spear's laceration (and subsequent avulsion of flesh), which has bled freely into his sheets, plastering his skin to the fabric like clotted black cement, but it's only flesh, only blood.

The only other mark on him is symbolic.

When he answers, it's so pointed it might as well be a harpoon.

"I'm fine."

[tacosgay]

"Horseshit," comes Taako's immediate response, his tone sharper for just a beat. "You were literally telling an angel to kill you, it doesn't take a fuckin' therapist to be able to tell we're pretty far from okay here."

Foster can't honestly think he wouldn't immediately see through that. Taako of all people knows too much to ever believe it when Foster claims to be "okay," and Foster knows that--hell, he got an enraged phone call on that very subject only about a week ago now. Portland was another world, but what happened there was real, and the consequences still linger.

[control_freak]

"Unlike you--" Foster's voice rises immediately--cracking and hot with something that sounds like very real emotion.

It sounds like emotion. It looks like emotion. It even feels like emotion, the burning rawness of his throat and violent ache in his head and the stinging tears, which he can spit out now but which keep threatening to start anew.

But behind the volatile facade, it's empty and wrong. He isn't feeling anything. It's fake, he's fake, all of it is meaningless and he just does not care--

"I'm fine." His tone is cinderblock blunt, disconnected from whatever other 'feelings' he's falsely expressing now.