Hey who the hell is this guy? (Open & Closed)

[quizpersona]

Who: A man who isn't going by "Gogol" right now
Where: Aldrip (now with better accuracy!) The Inn, an abandoned house at the edges of town, at a diner.
What: The assorted shenanigans related to a certain local murder clown who has faked his own perma-death to assume a different identity. There will be various toplevels in the comments. This is "closed-ish" because it's not 100% closed but there's a lot of ooc plotting and scheming going on so please come join in on the plotting scheming instead of blitzing in with a "hey you guys that's obviously Gogol" when other people are investigating.

Getting short-lived CR with the nice, helpful, and well-mannered salaryman is 100% open though because frankly that's funny.

Edit: now including a top level for his sentencing failure.

Warnings: Kidnapping, nsfw dialogue, law advice for the dubious, torture (includes finger trauma).

Comments

[cursegod]

[Despite Gogol's best effort to rile her up with his sass, Dara's frown actually lifts. Her features soften, eyes closed, as if she were just having a quiet moment all to herself. Distinctly at peace and without a care that she has a hostage kneeling before her.]

I'm capable of much more than you know.

[It may have been different 300 years ago, when she was still human. That truly naive priestess. But that person is gone, reforged into who he sees now: a vengeful spirit, a god-eater, a curse god.

She opens her eyes again, and she feels nothing. She looks upon Gogol and only sees a soul to swallow whole.]

I will grant you the experience of a living death. Any last words?

[quizpersona]

[ Licking at dry lips his thoughts turn to any feasible way to escape. Zip ties can often be crack when the hands are pinned together at the front. Often enough Nikolai had to keep an eye on that himself in similar situations. Unfortunate for his likelihood of survival: his hands are bound behind his mutilated back.

From the front the shift of muscle in his shoulders is hard to hide with the force he's exerting to try to snap the plastic. There's a twisting of hands that is done without a thought spared to how much damage it could be doing. The binds creak but they will not break. The uptick in movement makes blood ooze out from the sigil cut into his back. Blood soaks through the waistband of his pants.

A flash of fury appears on his face before apprehension takes over in coloring his thoughts. ]

Wait—

[cursegod]

Nope.

[The curse god's arms open at her sides, like sails unfurling to herald an oncoming storm. Gogol only has a few seconds to finish his futile attempt at escape. Bloodied fingers draw circling figures in the air before meeting together in a flurry of hand gestures. Her motions are all accompanied with whispered spells that seem to scratch at the edges of his mind. The flicker of candles waver, and the markings on his back super-heats for a split second.

Then everything stops. The world turns off.

Reality is ripped away from him; no sight, no sound, no smell, no pain. Only the sense of gravity is present to ground him in the room along with the feeling of pressure in his legs where he kneels. Just enough information for him to recognize that she has taken so much from him in an instant.

Even with the seal activated, Dara stays to watch. It brings her no joy or gratification to watch his reaction. Her only duty now is to prevent the man from any attempts to mortally wound himself before he can properly unravel all on his own. So she watches with an untiring gaze. This is nothing compared to the centuries spent on her mountain.

It's his first time, so she decides deprive him for 2 hours...as the first round.]

[quizpersona]

[ It's the sensation of someone or something else in his mind that got them to this point in the first place. Naturally the whispers scraping the edges of his consciousness as Dara does something unfamiliar with her hands make a cold prickly chill break out across his body. That is until the moment every little barb pulls towards and coalesces into a blistering hot pain over the spine. There's an attempt to speak— but he hears nothing come out of his own mouth— and so the attempt cuts off quickly

Then everything goes away abruptly. For a second it feels like death—a total loss of self. A perfect nothing. That wouldn't be so bad, and yet eventually he can feel the way his chest still draws air in and out. Thus the panic sinks its teeth in at a slowly metered out but inevitable rate. An hour into it there's a small, wretched laugh that escapes Nikolai without him realizing. Without the ability to hear himself it dies off into a quietly apprehensive whimper.

The skin being torn from the efforts to free his hands no longer stings, and that should set off alarm bells. Only the phantom touch of something flowing from a wrist down to his hands gets those efforts to stop. There's no sure way to know if saliva has pooled in his mouth because he's going to be sick or if that's blood from the cheek he's biting at viciously.

The only way to ball park the passage of time is when the blood pooling in his hands dries and begins to flake. Beyond then it becomes impossible to tell. At the two hour mark the only thing he can do is keep track of each rapid in-out-in-out breath that's picked up in his chest at some point.

When the time is up the sudden regaining of all the senses is jarring. Horrifying, really. When that time comes it's instinctual that his gaze jerks around to take in the unchanged surroundings and look for an escape. By the end all that can be down is to look her straight on and pipe up with a voice that's hoarse from the disuse. ]

That's a neat party trick.

[ and totally bereft of its usual false gaiety. ]

[cursegod]

Too bad I'm not a party person.

[Dara matches Gogol's gaze, as composed as she was before stealing his senses. He isn't the only one who has bestowed unfathomable suffering to other people. So the god leans forward a bit, elbow pressed to her knee as her chin is propped up in a hand. There's no mirth to be found like the mad persona Gogol puts on for his victims. This may be her revenge in action, but his pain does not bring her any pleasure. If this happened immediately after her body's restoration, it would've been different story.]

That was two hours. Next will be four, then eight, and so on. I don't need to sleep... You get it? [A different arm points at the ground to his puddle of blood.] You could hope to bleed out, but I have ways of keeping you alive. Restraints are easy too. So for this next round, maybe you should contemplate if it's worth it to challenge a god's patience with stubbornness alone.

[She sits up straight again, arms held out to start the seal's process again.]

Once more-- do you have any last words?

[quizpersona]

[ There it is, the sudden taste of blood in his mouth where there was that supernaturally imposed absence before. He tongues at wound torn by teeth in his own cheek as she gazes down on him like some uncaring God--exactly what she is, he supposes. ]

No, I— don't.

[ She didn't wait the first time and he anticipates that she won't the second time. This time Nikolai knows to brace himself. The rational part of the brain urges him to just promise whatever it is she wants so he doesn't get trapped in his own mind again. The urge the council put in the back of his brain twists and fights its way to the through to make him agree to it.

Still this time as their gazes meet there's still a spark of defiance. To avoid externalizing the inner voice that wants to agree he clenches his jaw painfully, visibly, as he expects to fall back into the abyss this time too. Yet the plunge still manages to catch him off guard.

The Ganzfeld effect is something fascinating. The lack of real sound means a mind will conjure up the massive sound of a heart beating, the sound of blood rushing, his deprived mind begins to fill in the blanks desperately.

Four hours, it's four hours worth of deprivation this time. Halfway through what Dara might witness of the inner turmoil it brings on is the way he flinches, shoulders pressing up and forward, when the sensation of a cold fingers touching along a cheek. Something no longer human nor real whispers things that scratch at the mind with no ways to escape. Fear, regret, a longing that aches more than any tangible pain... These things hurt the most when there's no escape from it.

Once again, at some point-- allegedly four hours later although it doesn't feel like it-- vision returns and eye contact is renewed; the misery that hangs heavy upon his features looks like it fits quite naturally. The vibrancy has been drained from eyes sunken in to a lash line that is reddened and wet. Just like promised his tormentor lounges, unbothered, like there's all the time in the world and it makes him feel a resentment he could choke to death on. ]

...What was it you wanted?

[cursegod]

[Gogol's torment is witnessed in its entirety; every recoil, every haggard breath, every drop of blood and sweat-- Dara chooses to witness it all. It's nothing as dramatic as the massacre she brought down upon the perpetrators of her demise, but the man's internal strife is still her doing. Outside of preventing his death, the only merit to spectating is to see through her work to completion.

So when Gogol's gaze reflects the desired outcome, there's a faint twitch of a smile before she speaks.]

I want your soul.

[Dara reaches out towards his face with a singular finger. The nail blackens and grows, becoming almost claw-like as she taps it against his forehead.]

Although, it's much more than that. The easier way would have been to forcefully possess you, make you into a stupid little puppet, but that's not quite the same as what you put me through. [Another tap.] For you to concede and to chip away at that one thing that gives you purpose by choice.

[She pulls back the hand to tap that same nail against her chin with mocking contemplation--] Your choice to live this way for another eight hours, sixteen, getting up to days and weeks. Months and years, if you prefer. It's your choice just like how you chose to dissect me for your useless tantrum.

...Or you could just say a few words. Your name, then, let's see...What did they say before? Oh yes... [The line of her mouth stretches into a sardonic, teethy grin:] "To the divine god of retribution, Yamatagi Madara, I offer up my soul to atone for my foolishness and to appease your wrath."

[quizpersona]

[ There's a reason why he smiles in such a tormented way— where his mouth stretches into a thin and tight curved line. The last little bit of resistance with that expression frozen on his face. It's because of the proclamation that she wants it to be his own choice.

There's the irony in it: because he's refused to do the sentencing the council has given him he already is a stupid little puppet right now; a compulsion that wants him to do things that he usually wouldn't. Technically the consent is being given — it's a decision the him in this moment is about to agree to fully but it's not a decision that Nikolai would make.

If he'd been left uncompromised the reality is that he'd accept death again and again before ever offering up his freedom. He would've lost all will to continue living in the present for as long as this vengeful god decided to keep him trapped here. He would've chosen to dissolve himself internally. It would have been enlightening to witness how she'd plan to feed him when he'd abstain from food or drink- even more so if he had managed to bite his own tongue off beforehand.

How fortunate it is for Dara: the council is helping her out whether they know it or not. ]

Oh? If it pleases you then. I, Nikolai Gogol—

[ The forlorn upturn of his lips doesn't reach his eyes. On the contrary in that moment the light dies in his eyes. A visible retreat far into oneself; disconnected from thoughts, feelings, everything. There is no space between the cage bars to reach his hand through to escape the brainwashing. There is no means to avoid having his soul taken. There exists no one who will help him.

Uncannily he doesn't put up a fight. ]

To the divine god of retribution, Yamatagi Madara, I offer up my soul to atone for my foolishness and to appease your wrath.

1/2

[cursegod]

[The god's eyes narrow when Gogol gives in. She didn't exactly expect him to break so soon; most of the supplies she had acquired beforehand was under the assumption it would take a week. Does this mean he has something up his sleeve? Was it a fake name? No, that can't be right. His words are practically a door swinging open for her. So why is it that he relinquishes too easy?

...Well, it doesn't matter anyways. The offer has been placed, and there's no going back. She got what she wanted.]

I accept.

[All the candles in the room go out simultaneously, leaving them in the dark as the temperature suddenly drops. The last thing for the man to see is that pleased, spit grin of hers. She stays silent and still, yet something creeps along towards the man. Its touch is not physical, but the malice is there. Piercing his skin without drawing blood, reaching deep into his chest. Into his mind and somewhere just beyond. It takes the form of so many sensations more vibrant than what his stimuli-starved brain created earlier: hands, teeth, claws, ropes, blades gouging him beneath his physical existence.

A bird plucked out of the air with fangs, wings broken by a powerful constrictive force, and slowly suffocating--

[cursegod]

Light cuts through the darkness as a door swings open. At some point, Dara had gotten up and left the room. The thing coiled inside his "self" keeps him seated, minutes ticking by until she reappears again. His overcoat and shoes are bundled under one arm, a different hand holding an unopened pack of mens underwear and an MRE, another holding the half-used gallon of water, and one more has his tablet. The supplies gets placed on the chair she had been occupying before she walks behind Gogol. Snap, snap, the zip ties are cut away.]

Alright, looks like things are settled. [Dara's already whipped her phone out and texting while walking back to the door.] Do whatever you want with all that stuff. I've got things to do, so I'm heading out.

[Just as she's about to disappear again, the god pauses and glances back towards Gogol:]

Shinjiro may have struck the final blow, but you are not allowed to harm him. Same with Abe no Seimei. In fact, after you're done here, you should get him some flowers for cleaning up after your mess. [Whether that last bit is joking or not, she doesn't say.]

[quizpersona]

[ Let's hope that Dara wasn't genuinely hoping for much of a response—because she certainly won't be getting anything vocal, at least not at first. At best he musters up the energy to watch Dara with that sullen look as she putters around with a revolting nonchalance. There's only the once when his burning gaze drags away from drilling holes in a face that's gone from one he regards neutrally to one he now regards with a deeply seated feeling of revulsion; it's when she drops the pointless supplies on the chair across from him. His body language is stiff as can be, as if he'd be lunging at her if it weren't for that thing coiled inside keeping him in place.

Not before long his eyes flick up sharply to track her movements again. Joke or not it's clear that she's having fun with this. When she decides to glance back the look of despair on Nikolai's face twists into a sickly saccharine splitting of his bloodied and gnawed lips upwards. The intensity of that expression doesn't fade when he inclines his head inquisitively to the side either.

Are those her loved ones? Truthfully, he had no intentions of tracking them down. The boy detective had been the only one involved he had wanted to inflict pain on, for stealing the Overcoat, and even that had been short lived after he succeeded. But now? By taking his agency away in their name Dara has all but drawn a circle around them and begged him to find a way to think outside of the box if he's ever presented with the chance. He can't ever do anything directly to them now: but if the opportunity ever arises for another way he won't be looking the other way. ]

Okey-dokey.

[ Eventually Nikolai finds his voice again, it's hoarse from the treatment he's received. A whimsical confirmation but there's not even one shred of humor in it. When he leaves here today he's not cleaning anything up. Even if it means collapsing later due to a lack of self given after care—he's only taking his device, shoes, and the Overcoat when he leaves. ]