dorkypantsuit: (-v)
dorkypantsuit ([personal profile] dorkypantsuit) wrote in [community profile] lostcarnival2017-04-30 08:36 pm


Who: The Psiioniic and Foster
When: Day 90
Where: Cave Jail

Psi didn't really have any idea what he was doing. It's not like this was an easy place to accidentally be. He was probably only allowed because of his status as supervisor, and even then he knew people thought it was strange that he'd come here. The cave jail was dank and dark, to the Psionic that made it feel homey. It brought back barely cognizant memories of his wiggler hood and post-pupation before the trials. They weren't things he remembered, but the feelings were there. However, considering the differences between their species he doubted this place held the same sorts of feelings for the human held inside. He comes up to the bars, not really sure what he's about to see. He doesn't know what sort of shape Foster will be in after their manhunt. He tries to be prepared for anything. With Foster though, he has a feeling that might be difficult.

control_freak: (The earth will overflow tonight)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-02 02:14 am (UTC)(link)
The shape Foster's in is 'terrible.'

Fighting Sans was, objectively, a stupid idea, but his goal in that had never been to win. It hadn't even been to survive. It had simply been to make things harder, to push Sans, to test him--he owed Sans nothing less, after all!

Well. He had owed Sans nothing less.

To answer the question: he looks a bit like hot shit. Thanks to his own acquired mushi infection, one eye had grown over entirely with dull, dusky-purple shelf mushrooms, but those had been damaged in the aftermath; now it (and its mushrooms) was crusted over with a kind of dark ichorous blood. The other eye, still vampiric red, is raw and wet, but there's no sign he's been actively crying.

He has, however, been sitting with his forehead against the cool, moisture-smooth stone, the heel of one hand pressed hard into that exposed eye.

Psi startles him out of his deep, plunging memory-reverie, and he hunches his shoulders but doesn't actually look.

It's absurdly hard to concentrate. Twelve years old, right? He was twelve. How old are you in seventh grade? He can't figure out who Psi's voice belongs to for a second. It's obviously not Sophie.

Or the Ringmaster.

Not Sans.



He just.... everything reminds him of something else, which reminds him of something else, and none of it feels like his, none of this is actually him, these memories don't feel like his. But they are his--? He knows they're supposed to be him! That was him! It's him! It isn't? Then who is he??

Oh--fuck. Right, the Psiionic.

"You're not... Sophie. Why are you here?" He doesn't take his head away from the wall.
control_freak: (It's all in who you know tonight)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-04 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)


Foster's lone visible eye narrows, the corners of his mouth pulling down in disgust as he turns his back on the Psionic by way of response.


The idea of someone worrying about him, especially after... that.... it makes his skin crawl. Now moreso... oh, God, he remembers so much. Way too much. He wants to crack himself against the wall, scrape his face off on the stone. People being invested in him, even hinting at it, makes him... he wants to disgorge his organs and choke on them. It's such a visceral revulsion and antipathy, there's no nonviolent expression of it. 'I was worried about you." It's less a sentence and more like an act of violence.

"I'd planned on being dead by now," is his reply. It's probably obvious that he's referring to his designs on Ginko and the carnival. It had been a suicide attempt, with the carnival his hostage. Ginko... the beneficiary of his will.

It's less obviously also about... existing, living in general. When he was twelve, the medical verdict was that he'd have made his final rapid decline by the age of twenty. Over time, that estimate, that haunted number was lost somewhere--his own attempts to project for his future, attempts to prophecy what he had left, to milk time itself for seconds and minutes to make something last, had scrambled everything up in all the rot and everything he was losing. But now he was twenty-five.

"So much for the hope that I'd get it over with."
control_freak: (Where proud you stand)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-05 02:12 am (UTC)(link)
"No!" It's so strong it almost rings off the cold stone walls. Almost. "No!" He spits the word, expelling it forcefully from his body as one purges a poison, a parasite. He hunches tightly into the corner, simultaneously protecting himself from the limited light in the cave and abjuring the Psionic, with all the violence of his good intentions.

But not three seconds later, he turns on Psi, his sole visible eye burning wetly. If he wasn't angry before, he is now. But he's not yelling--he's laughing. Compulsively. Repulsively.

And how...!

"How disgusting--to curry sympathy for myself right before my death!" And now that it's out--

If only Foster weren't so reflexively conditioned to recoil and reverse on his own anger, perhaps Psi wouldn't be faced with hysteria instead.
control_freak: (The earth will overflow tonight)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-06 06:07 pm (UTC)(link)
Define 'properly.'

Foster would say he functions just fine--

"It is, though!" His being alive is a joke, and this--this right here is its punchline. He keeps laughing, saliva down his chin, losing his mind completely at Psi.

"So go ahead, hate me! Please--feel free! Hate me, hate me!! I'm trash! I'm garbage! You saw it, just hate me!!!"

He's split between the compulsive, uncontrollable hilarity and something that he can only guess is rage or--or something, something horrible, maybe even the urge to cry--except that last one is already impossible and he knows it.

He couldn't feel strongly enough for tears even when he wanted to. For it to happen now is--is--!!
control_freak: (Pillar of the trenches)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-09 01:11 am (UTC)(link)
Foster is only seconds done with his outburst and he already hates it. Hates himself for it. For that... that. What kind of feeling was that? No.

Psi's reaction caught him off guard, but now that the temporary 'feeling' has evaporated, he's flooded with a different one, just as fleeting but no less unpleasant: absolute disgust. Not for Psi, no--but his eyes lid partway, going surface cold while his voice drops in contempt.

"Don't you think that's a bad idea?"

He doesn't understand him. Why would he even want to? Hasn't Foster made it clear enough that he's unpleasant by nature? That his very soul is nasty, untouchable and unattractive?

"If you're really trying to understand me and you don't hate me, then you're not doing a very good job."
control_freak: (Take my arm that I might reach you)

This icon's keywords whoops

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-09 02:50 am (UTC)(link)
He may have stopped laughing, but that doesn't make his mental (or 'emotional') state necessarily better. He's... shaky. Precarious. Unstable. He's still struggling to process the existence of a life, his unsuccessful dream of suicide, his failed attempt to grasp the ghost of meaning for his worthless existence.

Psi's desire to understand him is as contemptuous as it is frightening. Absurd. Incomprehensible--?! He wants to snap again, to--to break, but this time he can't even manage that. Whatever emotion is required for that kind of response is locked away now, as though it's on the far side of a chasm--ephemeral and concrete simultaneously, reachable by anyone but him.

"..... okay." It sounds... fake. Weak. What does Psi want him to say? Fuck you? He can't even manage that, honestly. He stares at Psi flatly for a moment. "....but there's nothing to understand."

He breaks eye contact, pressing the heel of his hand into his one visible eye--not to relieve the pain, but to focus on it.
Edited 2017-05-09 16:20 (UTC)
control_freak: (Sleep not as an island)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-10 03:43 am (UTC)(link)
He doesn't remove his hand from his eye--grinds it in deeper, pushing the pain into his nerve for relief. That punishing sensation of agony and relief.

"Because I am." How is that so difficult to understand? How much can he say it? How long will it take until the world acknowledges it? His voice strains, like even thinking about Psi's question is so onerous that--agghh, the light still hurts more than his hand.

"What do you do with trash except throw it out? Even if you haven't disposed of it yet, that's its destiny. It's something inherently nasty. It's already worthless."

He can hardly see any more?
control_freak: (But ground yourself with Jacob's ladder)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-10 04:35 am (UTC)(link)
"I--what?" Foster is so absolutely blindsided by this question... his face is honestly pathetic. What does that mean, what makes him worthless? What... doesn't make him worthless? He's a volatile waste. A rotted mind waiting to be extinguished! A dead end, a waste of space! Born diseased, born rotting! His very existence is--



He feels disgust.

"I'm just a disease."

The amount of contempt and loathing--self and otherwise--dripping from his words almost surprises even him. But there's a kind of excitement to it, remembering who and what he is. Affirming it. Asserting it. There's a sense of accomplishment that comes with that moment, the tangible effort of explaining the impossibly obvious. Whatever precarious sense of anguish--

He's smiling now.

"That's what I mean. There's nothing to understand."
Edited 2017-05-10 15:24 (UTC)
control_freak: (But ground yourself with Jacob's ladder)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-12 02:53 am (UTC)(link)
Irritating vagueness?

There is no 'irritating vagueness.'

There is only the Psionic, hearing a collection of words coming out of Foster's mouth--answers to questions he asked--and not listening to them at all.

Which is--well, it's not the exact reason he received Psi's claim to want to understand him with such confusion, with such alarm and resentment--but it's less terrible to approach, so it is now. His dread of the inevitable. All he can remember now, and he remembers nothing but more of it, growing worse and worse and worse. This is what he hates... he hates talking to anyone, he hates it, he hates the results, he hates the process--

He buries one hand in his hair, trying to push his fingers back through it, and instead gets tangled in a knot of crusted blood.

"No. No! I'm just a disease! I'm just a disease! I am... just... a disease."

Both hands buried in his hair, clenched tightly with fistfuls of filthy blond locks--

He cannot say it any more literally! He always says exactly what he means, and no one ever hears it at all.
Edited 2017-05-12 03:32 (UTC)
control_freak: (Where proud you stand)

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-16 04:01 am (UTC)(link)
One of the biggest problems Foster has with communication, besides everything, is honestly the vague, intuitive fashion by which other people navigate the process. He struggles enough to articulate things within himself; his thoughts are disorganised, language elusive. Ideas and concepts shift and warp.

Psi may not have meant to, but by antagonising him so specifically, he's actually helped Foster narrow down what he's trying to say, error by error.

"It's my brain. It's in my brain, the disease is in my brain!"

Everything you are is inside your brain; your thoughts, your feelings, the very concept of the self is in the brain. Everything you do begins first inside the brain; everything you've done or not done is stored inside a few pounds of fat and blood.

His brain is diseased; he's diseased. His brain is diseased; he is a disease. It's rotting, he's rotting, rotted--

Anger is fine, anger is good! He can take anger! He wants Psi to raise his voice louder, to escalate this, to grab him by the throat and slam him to the stone floor, where he can only choke out broken syllables past the saliva and claws.

Then he could say what he really thinks, he could think and speak clearly at last--!
control_freak: (The earth will overflow tonight)

I actually never thought he'd make this connection himself, thanks Psi

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-16 05:34 pm (UTC)(link)

He's talking with his hand covering his one eye, his head tilted back so the back of his skull is pressed against the hard, smooth stone, saliva flecking his lips, wetting his chin. His fingers are cracked over his eyes, just enough to let the light in--not to see by, no, but to hurt.

"Oh, people have diseases. People are born! They're alive! You were born you." Foster knows nothing about trolls. But the manner of Psi's entry into the world wouldn't change his argument in the slightest. "They thought I was me. I thought I was me. That I was born normal. Born healthy. That I was going to be alive! But they were wrong. I was born rotting--born dying. And when they were growing up, were reaching their full potential, I--


It all comes bubbling up to the surface. Not like a living creature, but like the deadly gasses of an undersea vent, rising in silent premonition of death.

"I was lied to."

Anger--real, cold, ugly anger flashes its teeth for the briefest second. Then suddenly he's backpedalling away from it again--retreating, talking faster; as though the more he talks, the further away from that feeling he can get. They lied to him, they lied to him and wasted him, his entire life, his entire chance, and now--

Even now--

"I told you--I know you can't understand! I know! But don't lie to me. I know what I am! I know what I'm like. There's no difference! When you talk to me, you're talking to a disease. When you touch me, you're touching the body of a disease. Don't fucking lie."
control_freak: (Everything will go tonight)

Self-defence, feat. Foster getting crazier instead of getting mad

[personal profile] control_freak 2017-05-27 06:09 am (UTC)(link)
"Shut up!!" Foster snaps suddenly, commandingly--his teeth bared right back. It's a rare act, so transparent, so defensive, so borderline hostile that it's outright uncharacteristic. And it's gone in a flash--a flash of white, that is, of prehistoric teeth, before his mouth clamps shut, jaw clenched against a fleeting emotion, his face fixedly impassive.

Psi is more correct than he knows. Foster feels cornered, feels that wild animal pain and anger and fear, Psi's impatience backing him further and further into the corner until he's trapped there, trapped in a place he can no longer give up in, not any more.

"I....." Psi asked for answers and Foster's given them. But they're the wrong answers, wrong wrong wrong wrong. Every answer he gives will be wrong because he's wrong, his disease is wrong--

Every reaction is wrong. You are not responding properly to the situation.

And then, suddenly, with a flash of clarity, of viciousness, of farcical hilarity and divergent anger, he understands why.

Psi doesn't want Foster's answers at all. Psi wants answers that fit his reality. He wants answers to make him feel better--because he is afraid.

It suddenly makes sense.

Truth, reality, are not absolute--not concrete, not stable. An honest answer will never satisfy Psi, because his truth is too unpalatable, it simply cannot be digested. Because there is no truth in Foster that is not riddled in rot, not soaked in his own blood. There is no state of mind free from it, no freedom of thought in the face of disease. That's what's so horrifying--so appealing--so grotesque. Its power is the power to consume. How frightening! How disgusting! How... how....

"You say you don't understand, but you do. You just don't want to. Or maybe you can't. But I... I've deserved every awful, horrible, wretched, miserable thing that's ever happened to me! Even this--no, especially this!" He leans forward, one visible eye glinting, his breathing ragged, saliva wet on his lips. "That's all you need, right? To know that it's not unjust? To know you're safe! Something like this... could never happen to you!"

Is he smiling?

He's smiling.

That's normal.

"I was born dead, and I will either die rotting or live forever. It's all been planned."