[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

[criticallyfucked]

"..... 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."

[tacosgay]

Taako just... sighs; for a long moment, he's quiet, unsure of how to respond to this, or if he even should. Foster's shit is fucked-- it's something pretty much everyone in the carnival who's talked to him is aware of, as far as Taako can tell. Honestly, "why bother" is a pretty good question.

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?"

[criticallyfucked]

Why wouldn't Taako just leave him? That's what everyone else does--it's what Foster encourages them, forces them to do.

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.

[tacosgay]

Taako makes a pensive sound, high and set in the back of his throat.

"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?"