❧ Entry No.1

[avoirfaim]

[ Hannibal does not make himself known on the network right away. He instead explores, reading what he can and figuring out exactly where he is. Wonderland. He's not above believing in what was once thought impossible, so long all the evidence fits. God works in mysterious, cruel ways after all, and Hannibal takes it in stride. He takes a day to officially announce his arrival. Making a move on the board without knowing what game you’re playing is be naive at best, but more likely just plain stupid. His device is comfortable enough in his hand, like the familiar shape of his ipad, and he’s already scrolled through, until he found he understood the situation well enough. Only then, after learning what he could and checking his person suit in the mirror does he show himself. It’s a video, and Hannibal is the model of concerned professionalism. ]

Good evening, my name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and it seems that I’m what you might call a new arrival. I’ve combed through the archives and believe that I have a good understanding of the situation at hand. While I do find it terribly rude that I have been torn from my home without the courtesy of an invitation, one can hardly expect such a formality from any higher power.

[ Not that he considers himself to be lesser in any way, but it’s curious, and he keeps the thought to himself, as he does so many others. He then pauses for a moment with his tongue to the roof of his mouth, choosing his words, before continuing. ]

It seems that I’m not alone in being pulled from my world into this one, so I find myself somewhat obligated by my profession to provide you all with a warning. There is a man here now, another new arrival, by the name of Will Graham. While I do consider him to be a friend and a good man, he has a history of mental instability and is currently on trial for multiple murders. I would suggest exercising caution in his presence and referring to me should you have any questions or concerns.

[Do you see that waters of being genuinely concerned in his eyes? Good. ]

Comments

ur face is funny

[glumshoe]

[ Will resents allowing strings to be reattached to him. He resents Hannibal's joy in how they all dance to his word and then was rewarded for his cruelty, winning Will's attention and their trust and corrupting all he touches. He can't - he can't save everyone that just gives themselves away, sells their souls without knowing where they'd signed the dotted line.

All snarls and snapping teeth, Will paces again. ]

I would have considered the situation over my professionalism. What risk could there possibly be if I'm not sick anymore? I'm - I get confused sometimes, but I'm not blacking out, I'm not losing time.

[ All the emotion pouring off isn't entirely for show, but he knows it's absorbed into a black void to feast on and yearn for more. He can feed it now and starve it later.

Will stops abruptly, breathing hard with his head bowed, as if it were difficult to admit. ]

I would say something if I thought you were a danger. [ Turning to him, the strains of a heart in the midst of breaking. ] Am I a danger to you, Hannibal?

its sad because it's true.

[avoirfaim]

No, you're not.

[ He runs his palm over his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose in a play for sympathy. As if Will did not have him figured out, as if he hadn't done what he done with purpose and elegance. He breathes out through his nose and rests his hand on his mouth for a moment, as if thinking on words on the tip of his tongue that he would rather not say, but oh is he obligated. ]

You know that I don't believe you to be a danger, but I also know that perhaps I have been emotionally compromised by the situation. I would prefer if I did not have to warn the general public but because the doubt exists, and because the doubt is well supported in spite of my instincts, I could not, in good conscience, allow the facts to be hidden.

Not once did I say that you were guilty. Only that you were on trial, and have a history of instability. All true, by all accounts.

show me your moves doctor

[glumshoe]

[ Good conscience.

Steeling himself, the minute leap of a muscle in Will's cheek is all the anger he'll allow himself for that display, a perversion of grief. Forced to sidestep a minefield of seemingly solid logic, Will has to rely on the play-pain he pushes to the surface to cover the sting of being outmaneuvered again. Appeals to emotion work insofar as the target has emotions to exploit.

Hannibal's emotional spectrum is dark and depthless as slate. He can't rely on him except to bounce his own mentality off. ]

And in your considerable experience, does the average person care whether or not someone is guilty? [ Will comes closer to balance the low, anguished drop in his voice. ] Or do they care more about the fact that said person is on trial at all? You didn't lie, no, but how have you done anything but cause panic?

[ Chin dropping, Will's eyes shut tight to gather himself for a sincere plea, working past the galling instinct to take the lamp cord and wrap it around Hannibal's neck. ] My history. I'd hoped you would continue treating me. I don't know what I'm capable of - I don't want to hurt anyone. But how do I know that you'll keep my confidence?

[avoirfaim]

[ You can't.

Hannibal's eyes fix on a point behind Will with one hand cupping his chin with one finger pressed against the top of his lip, playing the part of a man grasping desperately at strands to weave back into some semblance of rope. The finger then moves to rest at his temple, a stable angle on a strong wrist for his chin to sit. ]

It was a decision I had to make, a choice between two evils. Allow the residents here to remain ignorant to the possibility of danger and risk what I'm still unsure you are not responsible for, or incite minor potential panic in a controlled environment in order to assure that you don't hurt anyone. As it happens, I chose one with less potential fallout. Everyone who has asked has gotten the same answer from me: that I don't personally consider you a danger to anyone but yourself. Yet the facts remain unchanged.

[ He sucks his bottom lip, worries it with all the concern he can falsify inspired by that spark of something genuine that lends such vibrant inspiration. His hands drop down once again to entwine in front of him, the words found and the decisions made. When he looks back at Will to catch his eyes there is something there, deep in the hollows of his eyes behind the vacant chill, that is almost desperately real. It's small, quiet, a wisp meant only for Will.

Hannibal Lecter is talented. That a mere wisp he can bring down the tallest tree whose roots grow deep. ]

You're my friend Will, and your well-being is more important to me than the well-being of anyone else. If something were to happen, you would no doubt find reason to blame yourself.

I would like to continue treating you, if you would let me.

[glumshoe]

[ "The devil's voice is sweet to hear." ]

I'll blame whoever's responsible.

[ The words hiss through Will's teeth, sounding like a promise. Yes, and here he is reminded of just how good an actor Hannibal Lecter is, to have almost fooled a Will that is clear-eyed and righteous of cause, that already knows what blacks Hannibal's fingers and spatters him with innocent screams, a Pollock whose paintbrushes are dipped in the lifeblood of them all. No copycat except in the ways that he can feign humanity.

The proof is there, elusive as smoke. Will wants to put it out with both thumbs.

But consider it he must, or has to pretend to. The ice floes he summons are nearly the same that run in Hannibal's, cooling the briefest flash of green hellfire that builds in his eyes and to leave the weakness he needs to be seen; perhaps fire can be mistaken for a broken shard catching sunlight. Will shivers and doesn't have to dig hard for a time when it felt as though Hannibal's was the only warmth he could turn to. It terrifies him how easy it is. ]

I wish you would have told me your intention. [ He shakes his head, mouth thinning against seemingly poisonous truths.] I wish I could trust you.

[avoirfaim]

[ I'll blame whoever's responsible. That sounds a whole lot like I'll blame you, and the text behind the lines glows bright red. He can taste Will's disdain and he wants to suck it out like poison from a wound--an irony he's aware of, as a snake delivering venom. He sucks the back of his teeth instead, gaze focused and intent on Will as if he'll slip away if he is distracted for even a moment.

Knowing Will, he just might. ]

I should have, I'm sorry. You can trust me above all others, Will.

[glumshoe]

Yes. You've seen to that.

[ Will has no choice but to straddle the line spanning all possible truths: that Hannibal has alienated his friends and colleagues into abandonment, that he's intentionally sent a wave of fear of Will through their new setting, and that Hannibal has made himself alone the keeper of his darkest impulses long before Will had seen the inside of a cell. He knew just where to mine, then struck Will deep and true, and out of the vein bubbled the pain and fury until what he really wanted came up a rich red, almost black in the absence of light.

Hannibal can choose whatever version suits his mask. Through its slits Will is compelled to stay where he is, to figure out the shade of red looking back out at him and be fearless in divining his answer. Hannibal the psychiatrist feeds on the slivers of heart he offers up. Hannibal the killer gluts himself on the attention as he pulls Will's focus to him, using bodies as signposts. Hannibal the friend offers his help and trust when Will has neither and in doing so dominates Will's time and attention. He is a glutton, a dangerous, but common quality in a chef. ]

But I don't. [ It sounds painful to say, and on a level perhaps it is. He makes a step toward the door, still oriented toward Hannibal, a fearful worshipper toward its angered god. ] And I can't be - intimate with you when I can't trust you.

[ You can't but starve a glutton. ]

[avoirfaim]

[ The expression Hannibal wears like a second skin stays firm, reacting with locked jaw and the concerned discontent of a grieving companion. Yet, in the hollows of his eyes there is a glimmer that only the sharpest would see. Pride glistens in the red of his eyes, the color of drying blood mixing with the soil, destined to bring new life in death.

He knows Will can see it, can feel his own pride in spite of the mask he must wear, just as he can hear the dishonesty and the desperate attempt to pull the strings of the puppeteer. Their strings are tied and they can both feel each tug until either the string snaps of one falls into the other. Hannibal is the stronger man by far, with muscles like wire and a grip like a vice.

His eyes never leave Wills, even as he backs towards the door. Hannibal doesn't move from his spot, leaning against the side of a chair, hands entwined in front of him. He doesn't need to lunge, and so he won't. He will merely play the martyr, who sacrificed their intimacy for the greater good. ]

We all must have somebody to trust, Will. We are social creatures within our deepest natures, and isolating yourself will only drive you further into your own madness. You know as well as I that true intimacy isn't trust but the bond of empathy.

[ You are always intimate, Will Graham, and Hannibal will claim your intimacy for himself. ]

[glumshoe]

[ Hannibal's interest veers only into the sharpest: in minds, in natures, in weaponry. It was Will's misfortune to possess qualities from all three, to be pliable toward having them coaxed into the forefront and have Will exist as a triality, perfectly balanced because Hannibal willed it so, with careful hands serving as whetstones. Pride comes before a fall, and the grounds that Hannibal desecrate with blood will be the same that turn fertile with life he could not predict.

From a moment of Will's desperation, Hannibal has already steeled the strings against failure. Hot with shame, frigid with bitterness, Will is punished for his lack of foresight and feels his limbs dance to instruction no matter how he pulls against them. They bind and cut, and all that snaps so far is Will himself, disengaging from a confrontation he was not ready for and can't afford to take further loss on.

Withdrawing to the door handle is a controlled descent. What part of Will's shivering, bright eyed boy mask is an act isn't known to him; for authenticity it's better he doesn't. He pulls the tattered shreds of defiance to clothe it, sharpened, warped black claws slipping through gaps in the fabric. Will would make a show of warning him against it as a last act of the exchange, if Hannibal would perform heeding. ]

Intimacy with a murderer - [ He almost balks on the word, thick through the ghost of alleged shrouding it. ] - from anyone can be forcibly taken. It doesn't entitle you to my trust for the sole reason that you are the only one that reaches for it.

It does, however, behoove you to be careful what you take. Unorthodox methods or not.