2016.01.23: Phase 4
| Phase 4... aka phase 5? | |
|---|---|
| Foster infiltrates Nikodin's apartment. November lurks in the shadows, her presence unknown. | |
| IC Time | Night |
| Players | Foster November Nikodin |
| Location | November's Other Apartment |
Begin Log
There's... music coming from Nikodin's apartment when he makes it to the door. There shouldn't be, right? But there is. It sounds a bit like some old country. Is that... Johnny Cash?
Niko stops, and stares at his metal door, two bags in hand. He.... sets them down slowly. And he tries the door. He's left it locked. Still locked. Nikodin takes out his key, and unlocks it as quietly as he can, followed by the next door. He tries to slip in silently. If the light is off inside he may be successful if his 'visitor' isn't looking at the door.
As the door opens, the C4 on it explodes.
Or not. No, instead? Nikodin can hear the music more clearly now. Johnny Cash, indeed.
There's a man goin' 'round takin' names. An' he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around.
Foster's found Nikodin's favorite chair, probably. Lazyboy, perhaps? Whatever the case, the preacher's seated nearby, sipping on a glass of the last little bit of Niko's whiskey with a smug smile as he knowingly waits for Niko to step in. He KNOWS it's now, even if he doesn't look particularly alert.
At the terror in each sip... What great timing to see Foster drink his whiskey. Niko's alert expression changes into hatred. Loathing. "You... " He breathes, voice shakey with fury. He looks savage, like he could do things with his hands to flesh and meat that aren't supposed to be done. But... that knowledge flickers in his eyes and there's anguish, because he knows he can't... won't be able to. With the door still open, Nikodin never turns his eyes away from Foster as he scoots the paper bags of some food and LOTS of booze inside. Then, he closes and locks the metal door, all without removing his gaze. Then the wooden door. Many locks. At least Foster won't get out fast. He is breathing kind of funny and his fingers are flexing and unflexing, like claws in a tiger's paw. He shrugs out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the coat rack. He is still fully armed, but he doesn't draw his guns. Just.. paces, furiousely, closer to Foster, then... to and fro, in front of him, thinking, thinking HOW he could hurt him. "You..." He growls, standing still at last and pointing at the man with his index finger "Rapist. Lowly Hiding Coward. Take down your shield. I won't need these to crush your face in." He draws his pistols out and places them both on the coffee table in front of Foster. "Come at me. COME AT ME." He is shouting at this point. Foster rolls his eyes and sighs. "Oh spare me your righteous indignation. As if you aren't complicit in all of this. Did you warn the poor girl about the threats to her safety? My girls told you /explicitly/ that bad things were going to happen to her. Did you let her know? Did you even suggest she keep her doors locked and a gun under her pillow," the preacher inquires. "You didn't. You did nothing. You sat your thumb and let it happen, so stop being such a stick in the mud, sit down, and have a drink," Foster suggests, lifting the glass and finishing off the whiskey. "I certainly needed one. Wiping that story I planted in her mind about the rape in the first place really takes a lot out of a guy."
"I INFORMED HER" He screams in return, still enraged. But it wasn't enough, was it? He just said they said *nasty things*, didn't go into detail. And Foster's words get to him, no matter what, because it was, his fault. The way he says it, you can see the guilt filling him up regardless. "Ah should have been there.." He breathes, hand running through his hair in frustration, eyes on the wooden floor. They snap to Foster, in disbelief, at that last one. "Wha...?" The question never finished, breathless there. Fingertips tingling like an oncoming heart attack, but not. "Ya.. ya didnae rape her? An' the bruises? An' the blood?" His brows furrowed, because he does not beleive. "There was BLOOD ya Liar, there was PAIN."
Foster shrugs faintly. "Well the wounds were rather real. Hard to fake that. But she isn't suffering," he states plainly. "She's currently fast asleep with an empty bottle near her bed. Her wounds are removed. She'll think she got drunk and passed out, for the memory of the injuries and the healing have been removed as well," he explains. "I took no pleasure in this, of course. Inflicting the injuries in the first place, nor the mental suffering. But the nature of suffering is based in the recall of previous trauma. Neither her mind, nor her body, will recall any manner of trauma whatsoever. She'll be slightly confused, maybe embarassed, and that's the extent of it. Really, you should sit down and have a drink. You're a bit young, yet, but I can only imagine the blood pressure issues you're going to grow up with," he states matter of factly with a bland expression.
Niko glares at Foster with growing suspicion, but less hatred. Oh there is still hatred there though, plenty of it, and his blood pressure certainly is causing some constrited vessels, one such vein standing out on his brow and temple. His fists are balled up, his knuckle less swollen now.. with the blood. "Ya aren't tellin me the truth, Foster. What are ya hidin? Ya Hurt Her." He growls, unforgivingly. "Ya hurt the one ah love because ya want ta hurt me. Why don't you grow some infernal balls an' deal with me? This *was* suppose ta be between you an me. This whole thing got out of control. My fault. Ah shouldnae been... Rude. But ya hurt her, an maybe she won't remember but ya hurt her. Yer a coward, Foster, a damned coward hidin behind a shield. What is it ya wan? Me pain? Me sufferin? Ya can move in, there be plenty o' that to pass 'round." He says, bitterly. He paces.... until he gets to the paperbag, and fetches out a fresh bottle of whiskey. Then, he goes over to the couch next to the armchair... and forces himself to sit down near *the Man*. Sure, the hair on the back of his head is standing on ends, and sure he shouldn't talk like that, but damn, he is tingling with fury. Glaring, he unscrews the top.
Foster snorts and shakes his head. "This wasn't supposed to be between you and I. This was supposed to never happen. But you, Nicky-boy, couldn't help but put your nose where it didn't belong. I don't care that you were rude. I'll chastise you in public because that is who I am, and also who I must appear to be. But I don't torment people for poor manners. Hunters, however? Now they are another story," he states, silver eyes narrowing. "I drop my shield for those who I would challenge to single combat. I'm not challenging you because I have no need to kill you. Yet. And I would prefer you not give me a reason. So let's move on to the business at hand: your hunting career and your mistake of directing it towards me."
Whatever reply Niko had to give died in his throat at the words.. hunting career. He just... stares at Foster, pausing the screwing. How? How.. how how? But... he knows already. And he just... drags a hand to pull his hair back and looks at the coffee table in furrowed contemplation. Then, he unscrews the top more, and leans over, extending his arm to pour *Foster* another drink, a large portion too. For himself? He takes a much needed, hefty swig from the bottle, then sits back against the couch, eyeing the Man. "Ya put a fuckin' heaven and hell symbol in yer book. Wha did ya expect would happen? Yer all but shoutin' look at me, come together bretheren, let us be strong. Well, someone didn't loike that. Someone got curious. Tol' me. Ah checked it out. Ya weren't s'pose ta be me job. Ah'm not qualified. Fer all ah' know, someone jus' wants ta talk to ya."
Foster chuckles faintly and gives a sheepish shrug as he accepts the whiskey, watching the bottle and making sure Nikodin sips first (can't be too careful) before taking his own sip. "Power. Of course you all imagine that to be the primary objective," he comments dryly. "I gather my brethren unto to me for many reasons. Power is only one of them, and hardly a priority. Oh I've known mortals who have taken an interest. Who knew the ancient symbols and such. And their polite inquiries, I am prepared to entertain. But your Institute is not a polite organization, nor would they be satisfied with the answers I would offer. So they would feel a need to dig. To pry. Perhaps even attempt a capture? See what happens when they cut me open. You can see now why I responded rather strongly towards your inquiry," he points out. "And you have, very dutifully, played your part. I understand the nature of the Institute now, and what my approach with them must be."
"Ah said those things there out of anger. Ah don't know their ways. Ah've never seen wha' they do. Ah've heard rumors. It's not what it used ta be, Foster, not anymore. New leadership. Correctin'... mistakes. If ya wanna talk ta someone who knows somethin' it won't be me. Ah'm jus' a grunt. They point, ah go, inquire. Whatever ya think ya know should firs' be confirmed, because ah can't deny or agree with it, as ah don't know." He says, leaning his elbows on thighs, and watching Foster. "Tell me wha ya did ta her. Ya were in the shadows there. Lurkin, weren't ya? When vampires need ta control a human they create a blood bond. Tell me, Foster, how far does yer web reach?"
Foster lifts a brow and peers skeptically at the 'new order' speech before sipping his whiskey with a sigh. "Oh you'd like to know that, wouldn't you? My 'web' is sufficient, let us say. But while control of mortals is a simple thing, it is not something to be taken lightly. I'm a proponent of free will. Which is why you're being given a choice here today, Nicky-boy," Foster offers with a thin smile. "I've taken measures to make certain your apartment is clean. No surveillance either mechanical or mystical, so we can speak freely. We heard everything. Most of the information I have on the Institute has come from you, as I've been watching you very... very closely. Those who came before you? My darling little girls? The leather daddy? They revealed themselves just to shake you up and make you stumble. Force a mistake. And they succeeded. If I attempt to broker a non-aggression pact with the Institute, using a leak in their organization as a bargaining chip, how do you suppose they'll react when they find out it's you," he wonders aloud. "Probably not well. You said something about imprisonment in a cell," he muses. "Perhaps worse. I imagine the debriefing process you would go through would be unpleasant, to say the least."
He frowns at that, looking away from Foster, taking a swig of whiskey instead. On the coffee table is an array of... well - a rig, sort of like a bong, but made to be lit with a butane torch, also some rolling papers. The apartment has a smell of weed in it, the good, botique stuff rather than shwag. He looks at the said rig as though it has the answers, but it doesn't. So he looks away from it next, and back to Foster. "Ya have the advantage in this, that's bright an' clear. Wha do ya want?"
Foster dons the smile of the cat with the canary, as he's well aware he has Nikodin where he wants him. "First of all, you're going to call off the hunt. I do not go about callously abusing humanity, and I frown on those who do, so you need not have any moral objections there. Furthermore, not doing so is going to be decidedly unhealthy, so it really is in your best interests. Second, you're going to give a report that I am, in fact, a rebel angel. You may as well, since it's hardly a secret," the preacher says with a shrug, "but that I'm largely keeping to my own affairs not engaged in anything nefarious. Third? You'll keep me updated with information on your coworkers and who and what they're hunting."
"No." That comes only with the last request. His eyes are firm on Foster there. "Ah'm sure ya can do *very* bad things ta me, not even directly, as with Nova. But ya have no idea what they're capable of. Ya already know enough about me ta get me into serious shite, ah'll give ya that." His Scotish dropping next as he leans in a touch, eyes at Foster, back arched outwards in a slump. It's not quite defensive, but it's the kind of posture that's mentally ready for battle. ".. But they knae more. They'll always knae more. They might know about this right here an now. They might not need somethin' so physical as equipment. Ah dunae. With luck, ah can manage the firs' two requests. Then we part ways thar."
Foster tsks faintly. "Are they also aware of your vitae addiction," the preacher wonders. "You're hooked on the vampire blood. Not just a fan of it, this is an outright, self-destructive addiction. And it doesn't matter if it's all homegrown, after awhile? Those little vials aren't enough. Eventually you'll need to go hunting after them by yourself, and even if that's an area of your expertise? You have to know that sooner or later you'll slip and lose. They're faster, strong, and more resilient than you."
His gaze flickers off, just a touch irritated at the mention of his addiction. He takes the bottle to his lips and another, shorter swig, just to feel the burn of something that's.. not blood right now. The high is still there. A small vial per hour? Well, depends on the quality of blood of course. Damn, did Foster find the other little vial by his bedside, or the gun in his drawer, or the very many weapons strewn about the house and secured in places like under the coffee table. His hand goes down there to check if it's still there, though his eyes are on Foster. It doesn't matter if he knows now, certainly if they swept the whole thing they know. But he leans back again, staring glumly. "That's real good advise there, thanks doc." He says, frowning. "Okay, wha else can ah do fer ya that's in me power?" Foster peers at Nikodin for a moment before giving a curt nod. "Very well. I'll compromise. You merely inform me I or any of my brethren come up on the Institute's radar. That should be sparse enough that you don't draw undue suspicion. You see? I'm quite reasonable when you aren't screaming profanities over a simple misunderstanding regarding your sexuality." Foster smirks faintly and finishes off his whiskey before setting the glass aside.
He flares a little at the sexuality comment, though supresses his reaction. This is professional time. Niko doesn't look all too happy with all the requests. "It sure is a generous list in trade for me torture session. Thankfully, ah've been under the slab before. So now, there's somethin ah want." He says, tapping the bottle against his lips as he looks thoughtfully at Foster. "Ah want ya ta keep me informed of any new possessed individuals that *are* breaking portocol with humanity. Ah'm sure ya have enemies, an' those ya'd like ta get rid of. It would work in both our favors. Next, ah want information on any enemies you do wish to get rid of, given that they fit the bill. Ah'm not gonna do yer dirty work if someone looked at ya funny, they have to be... Immoral. And lastly, ah want ta learn straight from the horse's mouth. Ya can enlighten me about the demon an angel shinanigans, as well as what ya can do. In return, ah'll enlighten ya about bloodsuckers."
Foster thinks a moment. "The first... no. If any of my brethren are misbehaving, they are mine to correct. And I have historically done so rather effectively, as I can honestly say that there are presently none I have any concerns with. The second? Yes. If I had to engage every enemy of humanity, I would have little else to do. So I don't mind outsourcing, as it were," he states coolly. "The third? I cannot. By the laws I have laid down for my own Court, we do not educate outsiders. And what you're offering is empty as we know plenty about the First Murderer's brood."
"Foster, yer Jewin me." Niko says, frowning. He rubs his chin that's bristly with an evening shadow, and looks thoughtfully to the Man. "Calling off the hunt, an reporting yer in fact good for humanity... Rebel Angel, in return for getting rid of yer enemies... Seems the scale is falling heavily on yer side. Yer bound by yer rules, an so am ah, though ah've broken plenty o' mine, incidentally so. Ya've taught me somethin, despite the loss. Still. We can seal the deal with yer True Form. Show it ta me. Ah wanna see this Rebel Angel. Ah wanna see if ya tell the truth."
Foster snorts again and rolls his eyes. "I prefer that term, as demon is too... general. And demeaning. Sort of like using the name of the Jews as an insult," he points out chastisingly. "You seem to be forgetting that I'm holding all the cards here. If you need evidence of my divinity, I can provide that easily enough, but I am not a dancing monkey that performs on command. You wouldn't expect to start masturbating for my entertainment, simply because I had an interest in observing how humans engage in this act," the preacher points out with a lifted brow.
Niko flares at that again, fingers clawing the couch cushion, but there's not much he can do, so he just drinks his whiskey and glares. "Please. Ah need ta see it. All ah see is a monster when ah look at ya. Ah don't beleive ah word ya say, an trust me, ah wish ah did. Ah wan' everythin' yer sayin ta be the truth, but yer cunning. Fallen Angels are like that, ah admit. Ya wear the perfect mask, ya conduct yerself in a manner too fittin' fer what ya are. An ah hate you for this. It's too close. An it's hard to make a pact with someone ya hate, don't trust, someone ya think is lyin' to ya, warping yer mind, pullin th' strings. Ah've got that in me life already... Ah don't want ta be a puppet. Ah wan' to make this choice on me own. So help me make it. It's wha ya do, isn't it? Save souls?" He gives a bitter crooked grin there, though damn, he was honest.
Foster barks a short laugh and shakes his head. "Well you've certainly picked up the propaganda," he muses with a snort. "Here's a tip: seeing is not believing. Your eyes can be fooled, mortal. A sorceror could don wings, have golden eyes, and all manner of personal adjustments to their form, and you might believe it," he muses. "But your soul? Your soul knows the truth. It can't be lied to so easily." In that moment, Foster's eyes flash and glow bright silver while there's an overwhelming aura of power and authority that swells from him. It's coupled with a sense of peace, grace, and nobility. The whole experience is enough to make most mortals buckle to their knees and become whimpering supplicants. Nikodin, however, by the blessing of the blood of Caine, can resist that rapture. Or perhaps by its curse, he can never fully experience it.
Nikodin tenses in his seat, staring at Foster's eyes. It's like being hit by a large dose of vitae, but so completely different. And he is resisting it, actively. His fear is palpable in the air, if only for the intense effect. He brings up one knee, combat boot against the couch, and drapes his stiff arm around it, keeping it close, knuckles white around his bottle, goosebumps running down his flesh. "Okay..." He breathes, hoarsely "Enough" conviction weakened by the sense of beauty and grace. It's too much. It's enough to know 'they exist' but to feel them so real? He gets up, if it lets go, shaking off his hands, rubbing his jaw, back to Foster, just taking a breather. <OOC> Nikodin says, "his back to Foster, not returning yet"
"It's that vampire blood," Foster comments idly. "Makes you less than human. A true mortal would have a harder time resisting. Your kind remembers our glory in the pits of your souls. But vampire blood disconnects you from that. An advantage, I suppose, if you were hunting us," he muses. "A meager one, mind. But you'll not experience the true majesty of bearing witness to my grace. Perhaps just as well for this discussion." Leaning back in the chair, Foster continues. "So. Let's review. You call off the hunt, report my nature and intentions as being non-hostile to humanity. By the way, they can read the book and it's a fairly accurate representation of my stance on humanity. Ahh... yes. You report on if me or mine are in the Institute's sights. In return, I let you know what monsters we stumble upon that need to be handled, and I think I've already satisfied your curiosity as to my nature, yes?"
Nikodin is stiff, turning with slumped shoulders and a hung head, eyes bloodshut. He looks at the normal Foster, keeping one hand around his chest, the other at his jaw, rubbing his mouth. Still shaken, he'd just seen something he didn't even quite beleive in. "It's... it's all magic, right? It isn't real? It's jus' how ya perceive it. Ya can't be... ya can't be a *real* angel, what's real? What about... Hindu.. Confucius, Greeks?" His voice is still hoarse and he doesn't quite return, keeping that distance of a couch between them as he's just gazing at Foster while standing. "Am ah... goin' to hell?"
"Of course not," Foster replies coolly. "Hell is for children." He waits a moment before adding, "Pat Benatar? Yes? No? Nevermind. Suffice it to say that the Almighty kept the worst torments for us. What happens to you? Other than become a ghost, occasionally, and residing within the lands of the dead?" Foster shrugs. "One of those great mysteries. If you see the Almighty someday, perhaps you can ask and He might not destroy you for the audacity of doing so. Also, tell him Foster says hello and that he can go fuck himself," the preacher offers with a thin smile. "I am real. God... at least was real, but the fact is that the Almighty is nowhere to be seen or sensed and you don't hide a bonfire, so He can't be present. Hinduism? Probably inspired by stories of us," he offers. "Our forms can be rather atavistic, and not all of us have the wings. Or halos. And virtually nobody carries a harp around. Confuscious? Not a religion, it's a philosophy. And the Greeks had some interesting philosophical points, but their gods are, to the best of my knowledge, myths of no consequence."
"Shit." Niko breathes, taking the spine of the couch with both hands now as he just stares down at Foster. "All this time, the wars in Scotland, all this blood spilled in His name." Though his gaze darkens, and slips away, anger building there, but not for Foster. Though when Foster says a *bad* word, he is snapped out of his brooding to gaze back at the man. The first time he'd said *any* bad word, and that is towards God? And so weirdly it had been what Nikodin was thinking so he looks... abashed to say the least. "Ah don't want ta meet him. Ah don't want ta beleive. I refuse ta beleive." He says, fiercely.. then, not so much "But ya hate him... so he must be... but where was he when all this shite happened... so much blood spilled, when the fuckin' Institute happened, when ya hurt Nova." He adds, between gritted teeth. "Don't think ah forgive ya after what ya showed me.." He adds "Ah'm jus... processin' what ah saw." He finally goes around and sits down, cautiousely now, very aware of Foster's... well, Supernaturality. "He sighs and takes his head in his hands. "Ah don't know anythin. Ah wish ther' was a way out. Ah wish ah could trust one soul. An if ah do ah wish ah could say one word o' truth without bein watched." He says, gazing at Foster and withdrawing his hands. "Jesus Christ this fucked with me. You are fallen. How can ya be... nae, feel... so... "
"...Decidedly not evil? Because I'm not," Foster states firmly. "I was imprisoned, yes, and fallen from the grace of the Almighty. But you are making the logical fallacy that virtually every other person, nay, every other religion assumes: that their God is good. If the Almighty was truly good and righteous, then you would be right to not trust me. But you cannot know that He was. So, instead, you will have to rely on your own judgement." He lets Nikodin absorb that for a moment. "It can't be any surprise that the Almighty is cruel and uncaring. You've seen enough of the world to know that to be true. Now as for killing in His name?" Foster shakes his head. "That's mostly an excuse you mortals give to hate each other and kill each other. You have a cursed need to divide and label yourselves, and then distrust those who are not like you. The Almighty's responsible for that, but ironically has very little to do with your actual conflicts."
Damn does it fuck with his head. Knowing he is real. Knowing all this. Nikodin had stayed away from ... Fallen studies for a reason. It's just so much easier to deal with... dark magic, than all this holy shit. And Foster did feel holy there for a second, and it got in there deep, under his skin, even if he could resist and even if it almost hurt to see. "Then wha... do you preach in His name? Wha not jus'.. say what ya wanna say without God? Wha use him to get what ya want... wha not ... renounce, and be Good for the sake of it, wha justify it with His name?" -- Foster chuckles and holds up his hands. "Where do you think you are, son? This is America. And to be moral in America, you have to be Christian. Turning people around requires you being able to speak their language. I mean seriously, how many atheists have you seen elected to public office? Name me ten people who proclaim to be atheists that have had a major impact on American culture and history. Then name me ten who professed to be Christians and see how much more quickly you can come up with one list, rather than the other. It's a rigged game, kid. I just play to win."
That helps. Quite a bit. Now he's staring at Foster as though the angel's actually human, with an expression of wonder. Damn, shit gets crazy. There's a grin tugging at his lip though he should fight it, this man is bad, bad, bad, he did bad things to Nova. "Don't hurt innocent ones anymore." He says, almost sadly. "Ah wish you didn't. Wish we talked like that a while ago... what ya did there... with Nova? That was evil, practical, but evil. She's a good girl... that was fucked up, Foster. So if ya say what ya say and what ya are... ah wanna beleive it, but ya did something real fucked up." He says, frowning. "An now this... barter we got here, certainly falls into the devil's realm. Ah mightave protected ya for the sheer principal of it before, but ya hurt me girl. Why did ya do it? Why'd ya go against the principles ye preach?"
Foster pauses a moment before answering. "I have done a great many things that I have had to contemplate and question. Made difficult decisions. Have you ever considered whether or not the birth of a child would damn the world in to a crisis of apocalyptic catastrophe? I have, and know that I would have torn the unborn whelp from its mother's womb if I had learned that was its destiny. As it turns out, there was no reason to be concerned, but that is the scale of decisions I must make. This, what I did to Nova? You can forgive that. You will, in time. What you wouldn't be able to forgive is if I forced you to submit to me and I pried your mind open to reveal all your secrets. Well within my power, but then I would still have the Institute deciding to cause a ruckus and forcing me to mobilize my Court in response. This is much cleaner. The other end of the spectrum?" Foster peers at Nikodin with a lifted brow. "I could have told you, after you asked about the book, 'Nikodin, if you do not do what I want, bad things will happen. So tell me everything I want to know about who you work for and keep me in the loop on things.' But we know how that would have ended," Foster points out. "So I had to shake you loose, make you paranoid, and wait for you to make a mistake I could exploit. It was the most effective and most humane option. Consider this: If I cut your hand off, but then reattach it and remove all evidence it ever left you before wiping your memory of the event, do you suffer? Is your life impacted in any meaningful way?"
Niko is seated at the couch looking like he'd seen a ghost. Or a diety. The shock is passing and normalizing at this point, and the way he is drinking his whiskey also.. helps. If the music continues to play in the background.... he gets up to turn it off, as he contemplates everything Foster'd just said. "It's.. difficult to accept, but practical to the bone." He says, frowning as he returns to his place on the couch. He places the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and pushes the tray of weed and rolling papers towards him, busying his slightly shaken fingers with a task so they remain steady. He rolls a blunt. He'd never smoked a ... blunt with a demon before. "Ah don't think killin infant Hitler's morally correct, but ah'd do it. Makes me a sinner ah'spose. It's a slippery slope... Foster, real slippery, what ya say." He presents the fallen with the said blunt, much as an Indian on a reservation, or at least it has that feel. He doesn't exactly smoke like a 'stoner' but more like a functional grower. The lighter would be handed over next if he should take it. "Ya have ta give me yer word ya won't hurt anyone ah love again. If yer word is true, I'll be on your side. But no more... cutting hands off and sewing them on and wiping memory bullshit. It doesn't matter if she remembers. It matters that this evil was done, and I was witness to it. But you could... alter my memory, I suppose, but you aren't. So.. thank you."
Foster waves off the blunt and contemplates the ultimatum. "Well, you'll have to bear in mind that while I've infiltrated many aspects of your life, I doubt I know everyone you love. But I can assert that I no longer need to impart any lessons to you the hard way, as it were, so I don't imagine I'll have any need to target those around you." Foster shrugs and then continues. "No, if you betray me at this juncture? I'm certain you imagine that you could endure anything so long as nobody else you care about was harmed. We once thought the same thing too. We're now no longer so naive." He gives a thin smile. "No, for you? If you betray my trust, I will make you confront yourself. Every aspect of yourself. Every rotten piece of your history. You will relive it in a moment and know your true self. I'm not certain if you are aware just what a dire threat this is, but with some self-reflection I think it will come to clarity."
Niko frowns, the peace treaty declined, and Foster's words chilling. Not exactly the best way to warm up this mortal. He does not smoke either, just lays down the blunt on the tray, and crosses his arms at his chest, leaning back against the couch. "Thank ya for sayin' all this. Ya've reminded me why Demons are Demons." He says in return, whatever warmth he'd felt earlier fleeting, whatever enchantment held him becoming a cold, ugly truth. Oh, the threat is very real to him. It makes a shiver crawl down his spine. There is a reason why he drinks and escapes into the blood. "Yer fuckin' charmin Foster. We've got a deal. Mind, this is only what's in my power. Ah'll try an' convince my team, whether they choose it or not - ya'll know. Ya'll know about others, too. An in return you'll throw a criminal or two under my feet so ah won't come home empty-handed. You may go now." He even softens it, get out of my house on the tip of his tongue.
"Angels," Foster reminds Nikodin coolly. "I speak plainly, so there is no misconception, no misunderstanding, and so that I don't need to threaten people who shouldn't be involved. But enough of that ugliness," Foster offers with a light smile. "I'm certain you will be imminently convincing to your team and that there are other, real concerns out there that need addressing. Otherwise, I have to consider a contingency plan to make certain the Institute isn't digging where they do not belong. One does not pry in to the business of beings older than the cosmos without consequence, yes? You're aware of this, and you're getting off rather light, truth be told." He stands up and thankfully avoids any additional barbs about how absolutely gay Nikodin is for him as he heads for the door and starts fiddling with the locks to depart. "When you speak with November tonight or tomorrow, you'll find her blissfully ignorant. Do so soon and take comfort in that, for you'll be quite busy afterwards, I think."
Nikodin had said demons for a reason, so Foster correcting him pleases him. Still, he's not going to poke the ancient any more than he can. He's just staring up at him, leaning forwards a little bit towards the whiskey, but not touching it. Hands on knees, watching, always watching. This man had become... *incredibly* dangerous now, after all. He watches the lock fiddling... feeling like an idiot. He really should have opened it himself to save the awkwardness. "Oh I'm sure Hitler'd say the exact same thing... though you'd probably murder him as an infant to save the human race." He calls. Then... frowning, walks over to the door, to open it properly. It's fucking creepy being this close so after he does it he takes a few steps back. "Yer practical, cold, Foster. That doesn't make an Angel. That makes a tactician. A general of war. Angels don't wage war." He says, opening the door. "But losers don't write history." He says bitterly, more to himself.
Foster lifts a brow at Nikodin and chuckles faintly. "Son, we were soldiers before the concept of war or enemies even existed. It was just more like being... the Army Corps of Engineers," he allows with a faint shrug. "I don't start wars, if I can help it, but I'll do what I must to prevent them." And to win them? He doesn't say... he just walks out.
"And to win them?" Niko calls out, never receiving an answer.
End Log
