Foster Van Denend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
control_freak) wrote2016-12-05 06:40 pm
control_freak) wrote2016-12-05 06:40 pm
[OOC] Lost Carnival Contact
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.
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.
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"Look," he says at last, "If you wanna die that badly, like, I can make it up to you once we're off these fuckin' contracts."
TW: suicidal ideation IT'S PROBABLY A LITTLE LATE FOR THIS CONTENT WARNING FUCK
Foster is... he doesn't know what he's feeling, if anything.
"How?" He asks, but it's a touch emptier than his usual enthusiasm for death would have implied. "How? Drowning? Bludgeon? Strangulation? Cut me open, a bullet to the brain, decapitation, electrocution? Impalement? Through the eye?"
As he advances through the list, his volume rises, a mounting intensity like excitement, like ardour and vehemence and anticipation and... anger. Agitation crept in, and something else took over. He couldn't figure it out at first, why he felt not just expectant but wronged.
But it's because it doesn't matter now.
Taako's offer, now, after the opportunity that really counted... it's too late. It's too late, it's too late, it's too late.
It's too fucking late.
And once it clicks, he understands exactly what hurt about it. Why he was so ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓.
"Why... didn't you kill me then?" He asks, intertia taking him to the question he'd been holding, hiding, coiled like a cask of acid in his aching chest. His tone is somewhat dispassionate, hollow at first, but the momentum builds, and with every word it swells inside of him, emerging with an increasing pedantism that belies his simplistic refrain. "Why didn't you kill me then? Why didn't you kill me then? Why didn't you kill me then?"
Then he takes another breath.
"Why did you wait?"
And then:
"Why do I have to wait?"
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When Foster is finished, there's a silence; Taako collects his words quietly before he starts to speak.
"... because if I did anything then, they would've-- there was a fuckin' angel right there, my man! You think she would've put up with a demon straight-up murdering somebody in front of her? And, yeah, like, we've gotta wait now, because we're back in this fuckin' place and I don't wanna get turned into a potted plant or whatever they do to murderers around here." He lets out what's left of that breath in a huff, and then laughs mirthlessly. "So, yeah, you've gotta wait, but like, if you think you can handle that, I'll put you down and you can just... chill out in whatever afterlife you're headed for, and we'll go on with our-- well, I'll go on with my life, anyway."
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But he can't even do that; whatever 'feeling' he can experience is locked on the other side of that black glass, and his own wish to feel, to express what will destroy him from inside simply slides off the sheer pane.
On a basic level, it's simply that Taako's excuse is so... selfish. It's only natural, of course; had Taako had any other excuse, he would have hated the elf immensely for even trying to justify his inaction. But he has not, cannot remember ever having hurt as deeply, ever having needed so deeply, ever having felt as deeply as he did there at the ritual site, and he has, in every sense of the word, suffered for his entire life.
And that's what pierces him now, the barbed truth ripping through his stomach and leaving his intestines, his visceral organs in bloody tatters. How much more does he need to hurt before the universe sees him, before his pain is worth acknowledging? At what level of agony will fate notice and finally grant him mercy?
How much more pain does he need? How much blood, how much anguish, how much--!
"No." It hits Foster with the force of a diagnosis: the realisation that Taako doesn't understand anything. The dizzying exultation of blood shed from an empty body, the insatiable hunger for death and life and relief, the endless craving for that milky oblivion.
The cruelty of a meagre death offered far too late.
"No, you won't."
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What the hell does he even mean?
"What, I'm not going to go on with my life?" He has no idea what exactly that implies. "Or I'm not going to make it up to you? Because one of those is considerably more worrying and less presumptuous than the other."
Taako went and got himself tangled up in something truly nasty, and he's only now realizing just how nasty it could potentially get. All he can do is offer to make up for it; what else is there? He can't go back in time-- he passed on that relic, after all, and for good reason.
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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."
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But... well, he's gotten himself this involved already, and it's kind of shitty to just leave him hanging after their plan went to shit.
After several quiet moments of thought, he holds down the button on his radio again.
"... okay, so dying isn't a fun and exciting idea anymore, I get it. So, what about just... starting a new life? Like... get rid of the brain problem somehow, and start over?"
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He doesn't want help--there's nothing to help.
Helping him is a waste--of time, of energy, of self.
And Taako especially has worn out his ability to be a welcome opportunity.
Foster laughs at him. It's the kind of hollow, bitter, wretched laugh that is only remotely humourous somewhere in the rotten tunnels of Foster's diseased brain.
"Oh, so now I'm to ask RM after all? Forsake my fate to writhe and beg supplication at her feet?" He stops laughing.
"The problem isn't my brain." Taako can't see him, but he'll be able to hear the downshift in Foster's voice, the dispassionate fatalism which he nurses at the root of his decay.
"Cure the disease and you're still left with something rotten. 25 years of waste. It doesn't matter what you fix in me, I'm still... myself."
Disgusting.
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"Mmmmmmm... except I think I know a way to get rid of that, too, kind of. You can make everyone, including yourself, forget it ever happened, anyway, if that's good enough for you."
The voidfish. Whatever information is fed to it is erased from existence, except from those who drink from its tank-- normally, the idea is kind of creepy, but in this case, it may be just what Foster needs to actually fix his shit.
"Patch the holes in your brain, then just throw whatever you want to get rid of to our little friend the voidfish, and you're set, my dude: a whole new Foster. Or, uh, I guess you could actually pick a new name, too, if you wanted to?"