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

[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. ]