Foster already is nothing--the roiling, sucking nothing of a vaccum; the crushing, absolute black nothing of oceanic depths; the vast, utter nothing of the Void itself. He was nothing when he was born and he will be nothing when he expires. In between, he is contagion, infectious affliction of the mind, a waste of his body--an insult to the very act of being alive.

And from this, from the defiling of hope, Herbert plans to make anew? To make his--?

The idea of being a construct, a product of one's achievement, the culmination of design, the firmament on which something is to be created anew inspires a terrible excitement in Foster. In this way, he's finally starting to feel that intoxication. In more ways than one.

"You will unmake me," Foster responds--not an exultation, but an accusation. "You will destroy the purpose of my only fate."

When Foster spits the words, he does so... pretty literally.

So, good thing Herbert put space between them.

He sounds increasingly desperate--not a lament, not a plea.

Hope is antithetical to him, belief being a form of certainty beyond mere aspiration or dreams. And he knows what is and isn't meant to be.

"And how will you have me, then--!?"