Foster van Denend (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
criticallyfucked) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
lostcarnival2017-09-15 08:36 pm
criticallyfucked) wrote in lostcarnival2017-09-15 08:36 pm
Entry tags:
Yes to understand this lie [Closed]
Who: Foster and Taako
When: Day 158
Where: Trailer 18
What: Taako is having a breakdown. Foster is.... not the right person to be around.
What: TAZ spoilers, language probably
There was never a time when his life wasn't about waiting. Waiting is normal. Waiting is all he's ever done--an agony of suspense, of anticipation, frustration and hope and tedium all at once. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for his miracle, waiting for an, the explanation, the one that would allow him to be fixed. Waiting for what was wrong with him. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Waiting for decay. For the clock to stop. For the earth to crack open. Waiting for opportunity. For excitement. For purpose. For pain. For that feeling.
For the one second it counts.
Waiting for the universe to notice: for his judgment, his absolution, his fate. The finalisation of his sick, pointless life. Interminable, so close and yet so inexorably far, just on the other side of the next second--just on the other side of eternity. For the end at which all his waiting would finally satisfy and the ending would be complete.
But.
This....
This is....
Empty.
His time, his existence is hollowed out. There's an end to it, a set point, and it feels like Nothing.
The trailer floor creaks under his weight as he shifts his position, hooked clawtips snagging on carpet fibres. He stares at them between his paws, transluscent squiggles twined together in loops. He doesn't fit on the bed any more, but he doesn't mind that. It's appropriate, being relegated to the floor. Like a... well, like an animal.
Haha.
At least being a bear again doesn't feel bad. It's... almost comfortable. Comforting? No. That's... stupid. That's definitely wrong.
But it's not... bad.
He can't get too used to it. Nothing here lasts. Which is.... in itself, that's actually comforting. Impermanence... meaninglessness. That's something he can understand. Even appreciate.
But bitter comfort.
He's been absorbing his memories, slowly, stories cracking open like eggs, in pieces.
It's an absolute void of purpose, the absence of matter. Of presence. He's isolated by time and space now.
Waiting.
But without resolution or even the hope thereof: those precious, vitalising glimpses of oblivion.
Instead of racing neck and neck with death, hurtling towards his own destruction with arms spread wide, his heart pounding--
Instead of sprinting to meet the end at its own finish line, an end that's itself racing to meet him, to hunt him down--
Instead of that horrible, exhilarating desperation, the need to make every second count, because every second could be the one--
He's just.... killing time.
He just exists, and has to keep existing.
Until the universe decides.
Not any second, but months from now.
Months from now, during which he has to keep.... existing somehow.
It's impossible. It's numbing. It's the most lifeless way to live he's never wanted. How, when second to second is the only way to live, the only way to be alive, the only way to get ahead in the race to die--
How, when enduring one more second is already the most excruciating task, when each drop of hot and living blood is a bribe to fate and the need to shut it off, to shut it off, sHUT IT OFF is only one more second away--
Unless, of course, he's wrong.
And he knows it has to be wrong.
Escaping his fate. He wanted it--he still wants it, sometimes he can even feel it, if he focuses on it enough it comes to him as an ache in his chest--
But he doesn't feel... right.
Maybe the universe will correct his course... show him how he's wrong. And he knows it will, but he wants to hope--he wants it to be possible, just weeks ago he wanted it so badly that it hurt, he remembers how it ripped him apart, how it wracking his body and heart inside and out, remembers that he was in such agony... but he can't remember the agony at all.
It's a dull soft pad only; the 'almost' of a feeling, a distant light reflected on breaking waters, glimpsed from a seat in a wooden dinghy rowing far from shore.
But he won't let go of it. It's his, it's his and he has nothing else. It's his.
Until something rips it from him, it's his. It's all he has.
He just has to be patient. For a sign. He just has to wait... until he has a sign.
Until then, it doesn't matter. Ginko can indulge his morbid curiosity, Reira can believe he is whatever misbegotten benefactor she never deserved, the Psionic can... he doesn't know what the Psionic wants. It doesn't matter.
He's just.... waiting.
When: Day 158
Where: Trailer 18
What: Taako is having a breakdown. Foster is.... not the right person to be around.
What: TAZ spoilers, language probably
There was never a time when his life wasn't about waiting. Waiting is normal. Waiting is all he's ever done--an agony of suspense, of anticipation, frustration and hope and tedium all at once. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for his miracle, waiting for an, the explanation, the one that would allow him to be fixed. Waiting for what was wrong with him. Waiting to live. Waiting to die. Waiting for decay. For the clock to stop. For the earth to crack open. Waiting for opportunity. For excitement. For purpose. For pain. For that feeling.
For the one second it counts.
Waiting for the universe to notice: for his judgment, his absolution, his fate. The finalisation of his sick, pointless life. Interminable, so close and yet so inexorably far, just on the other side of the next second--just on the other side of eternity. For the end at which all his waiting would finally satisfy and the ending would be complete.
But.
This....
This is....
Empty.
His time, his existence is hollowed out. There's an end to it, a set point, and it feels like Nothing.
The trailer floor creaks under his weight as he shifts his position, hooked clawtips snagging on carpet fibres. He stares at them between his paws, transluscent squiggles twined together in loops. He doesn't fit on the bed any more, but he doesn't mind that. It's appropriate, being relegated to the floor. Like a... well, like an animal.
Haha.
At least being a bear again doesn't feel bad. It's... almost comfortable. Comforting? No. That's... stupid. That's definitely wrong.
But it's not... bad.
He can't get too used to it. Nothing here lasts. Which is.... in itself, that's actually comforting. Impermanence... meaninglessness. That's something he can understand. Even appreciate.
But bitter comfort.
He's been absorbing his memories, slowly, stories cracking open like eggs, in pieces.
It's an absolute void of purpose, the absence of matter. Of presence. He's isolated by time and space now.
Waiting.
But without resolution or even the hope thereof: those precious, vitalising glimpses of oblivion.
Instead of racing neck and neck with death, hurtling towards his own destruction with arms spread wide, his heart pounding--
Instead of sprinting to meet the end at its own finish line, an end that's itself racing to meet him, to hunt him down--
Instead of that horrible, exhilarating desperation, the need to make every second count, because every second could be the one--
He's just.... killing time.
He just exists, and has to keep existing.
Until the universe decides.
Not any second, but months from now.
Months from now, during which he has to keep.... existing somehow.
It's impossible. It's numbing. It's the most lifeless way to live he's never wanted. How, when second to second is the only way to live, the only way to be alive, the only way to get ahead in the race to die--
How, when enduring one more second is already the most excruciating task, when each drop of hot and living blood is a bribe to fate and the need to shut it off, to shut it off, sHUT IT OFF is only one more second away--
Unless, of course, he's wrong.
And he knows it has to be wrong.
Escaping his fate. He wanted it--he still wants it, sometimes he can even feel it, if he focuses on it enough it comes to him as an ache in his chest--
But he doesn't feel... right.
Maybe the universe will correct his course... show him how he's wrong. And he knows it will, but he wants to hope--he wants it to be possible, just weeks ago he wanted it so badly that it hurt, he remembers how it ripped him apart, how it wracking his body and heart inside and out, remembers that he was in such agony... but he can't remember the agony at all.
It's a dull soft pad only; the 'almost' of a feeling, a distant light reflected on breaking waters, glimpsed from a seat in a wooden dinghy rowing far from shore.
But he won't let go of it. It's his, it's his and he has nothing else. It's his.
Until something rips it from him, it's his. It's all he has.
He just has to be patient. For a sign. He just has to wait... until he has a sign.
Until then, it doesn't matter. Ginko can indulge his morbid curiosity, Reira can believe he is whatever misbegotten benefactor she never deserved, the Psionic can... he doesn't know what the Psionic wants. It doesn't matter.
He's just.... waiting.
no subject
The academy.
The IPRE.
The badge.
The ship.
His hands find the edge of the table, and it's the only thing holding him up as he treads hopelessly through the lost years, one memory dragging him under and into the next. Flauta is, likewise, stunned, her body hanging loosely around his neck and tangled into his hair, trying to hold onto him desperately for some kind of purchase.
The ship-- the Hunger.
A blur of worlds.
Lup.
Taako's knees hit the floor as he collapses, his frame folding in on itself as that one name, that one realization sends a bolt of pain and shock and loss through him that's so powerful he can barely breathe. Lup. His twin. His sister. The only family he's ever cared to know, kept close. The most important thing in his life.
The only thing that really mattered.
The Umbra Staff. Those bones. Her bones.
He clutches his head, at once numb and feeling far too much. He doesn't realize there are tears on his face.
no subject
He's so lacking in empathy that he has no reaction at all. No sympathy, no concern--it doesn't even occur to him yet to be curious, or wonder about why this is happening, or whether it affects him.
So Taako is left sobbing into the thin trailer carpet by himself, Foster a safe and uncaring two or three yards away.
Watching him.
no subject
He doesn't say anything to him.
He ignores him completely once his gaze is turned away, a hand tangling into his thick curls, trying to smooth through them but just becoming caught.
no subject
He's slowly beginning to form a thought, or a few thoughts, but the embryonic seeds of idea and impression are still new--not enough to react to, really. He still has no empathy for Taako, or sympathy, nor would he even if he had all the time in the world. He's beginning to... dislike this, though.
Discomfort. It's the nascent bud of discomfort, its first petals barely beginning to uncurl, and he doesn't like it--but it's still on Taako to make the first move, at least for a few more seconds.
After all, he's the one blocking the door.
no subject
He goes to his bed, and he sits there, his gaze pointed down at the carpet, unseeing; his fingers are tightened and curled so tightly in the fabric of his skirt that his knuckles pale, his breathing loud and wet.
His mouth makes a gesture that implies he wants to speak, but no words come out.
no subject
There's a budding impatience, though--Taako is not, clearly, about to keel over and die on the floor, nor has he (thankfully) burst into tears. But there's still a chance of at least the latter, and Foster is starting to feel the strain of conflict between not wanting to deal with that and wanting (finally) to know what is going on.
The word he uses to break the silence is.... about like that, yeah.
"Well?"
no subject
"Can we like... not right now?" The lashing out of a wounded animal, his voice trembling just slightly despite the threat behind them. "Like, I get you've got no concept of, like, when to say things and when to not, but like, can we just... not, Foster?"
He doesn't fucking know him. He doesn't owe him an explanation for anything. A dry sob chokes him, and he shudders, screwing his eyes shut.
"Fuck."
no subject
On the one hand, Taako's rejection is obvious, and that (on at least a superficial level) absolves him of any 'requirement' to be responsible for this. But on the other hand, Taako has now started to actually cry.
Over what?
He knows, categorically, that just ignoring someone who's crying is A. not considered acceptable and B. actually a huge pain.
Which is, in the end, what pushes him from 'silent and obedient' to--
Well.
"I don't know, can we?" he asks, quietly.
It's not kind.
no subject
"... it's not like you to get so fucking nosy," he says, and he lifts his head to shoot another glare at him; but he sucks in a breath, and he continues. "If you simply must know, I just found out that fuckin'... somebody wiped out like a hundred fucking years of my life, and also Lup-- my, my fucking sister. And I just got them back, minus, you know, Lup."
He breaks off, staring at Foster, his expression almost mockingly expectant, as though he's awaiting whatever grand gesture they both know Foster won't give him in response to such a revelation.