[You can see something in the corner of your eye, but when you turn, nothing is there. You hear the snip snap snip of scissors behind you, but when you turn, the hall is empty. You know you are being watched, but there's no one there to watch you.

Sometimes it's passing: maybe you'll feel a brush of cool metal against the back of your neck or your fingers, but then its gone, and you're alone again, free to carry on. Sometimes it's worse.

The scissors might bite down a little, leave twin trailing scratches. If you run, you may escape - but the scissor man knows how to stalk his prey. But worst of all, when you know nothing can save you, you might hear his voice in your ear:]

Have you been a good boy? Have you been a good girl?

[Hmm.

Hannibal has been observing. He's read enough of the network to know, at least vaguely, what's going on. He very purposefully waits till the day is winding down, just in case.]

My name is Hannibal Lecter.

[And that. Is it. Just his name. No open invitation. He's not looking for anyone (not really), and he's certainly not expecting anyone. Whatever small and buried hopes he has are staying very hidden, even from himself.

He's just...curious.]

[Spam for Bruce]

[Just before the crash, when the wave of exhaustion seized him, Hannibal spent the last few moments of consciousness crossing his room to his pack. He wrapped his hand around its pack just before dropping, and that is how he wakes: on his side, grasping a bag full of semi-decent equipment and some of the silverware he bartered for in London Below.

There's no harm in wanting to bring civility with you, wherever you go.

His eyes adjust to the dark - he has always seen well in dim lighting. Fortunate, given how much work he gets done in the middle of the night. But it isn't night (he is certain it's morning). They are underground.

They. He is not alone.

Settling the pack on his shoulders, Hannibal reaches out to touch the other man's shoulder lightly. He knows that scent. He knows those curls. A broken neck is too good for him.]

Dr. Banner.

[Open Spam]

[After leaving Banner's body cross legged against a wall, in a pose of meditation (with words carved into the dirt of the wall beside him, 'Give me the strength to accept with serenity the thing that cannot be changed'), Hannibal moves on. There is blood on his pants, hidden by their dark color, and smudges on his collar and cuff. He is unconcerned by them: they will all be blooded, one way or another, by the time they return to the ship.

He wanders; he hunts. The natives, he learns quickly, are not very communicative. But they do understand one thing.

Hannibal kills three of them - the first with a fork, those after with its crude stone knife - before finding a small camp. It suits him - a city would be too much, too many. There is only one left to guard the site, and though the native hears him approach, he - she, perhaps? he cannot be certain - does not hear him in time to survive.

The body he leaves on the floor, finding instead cooking instruments - a campfire pot he cleans as well as possible, something that could pass for a plate - and starting a small fire.

He has never been one for camping, but needs must.]

[Spam | Day 1]

( Read more... )

[Public | Day 5]

[When the camera comes on, the first thing visible is a long dinner table, with a veritable feast laid out on it. It looks very fine, the kind of thing you'd find in a Michelin class restaurant, from an award winning chef. Hannibal may have won no awards, but his presentation is certainly top notch.]

Hello.

[He wears a very pleasant smile, standing behind the seat at the head of the table. His hands rest on the chair's back. To his left sits Alana. Hannibal inclines his head to the viewers.]

There is little either of us can contribute to fixing the Barge. [They could bring back supplies, but really - they had a much better way to spend their time.] We can however offer a repast to those who have worked so tirelessly, in one manner or another.

[Wardens, inmates, those working to fix the Barge and those working to escape it. It doesn't matter who comes, just this once, so long as their table manners are impeccable. Hannibal takes a glass of wine from the table, and lifts it in a toast.]

I've attached the address. Please, join us at your leisure - but I would not advise you to dawdle. Only the first course is served cold.

[Spam for Bruce]

[Hannibal has kept his nose clean. He's pushed, here and there, but ultimately he's avoided confrontation, even in the event of his own deaths. He has been, all things considered, very well behaved. But there is a certain boredom to the rote, to living amongst those he does not care for and cannot use. The Barge has become a dull place to him, in some ways, and that is unacceptable.

It's clear enough that things are about to become interesting again, but reprising his role as the inmate on the other Barge is not useful to him. The most recently past flood, however, was: he's been waiting for the right moment, and he's found it.

Taking plate and cutlery from his own room, Hannibal piles the former high with a neat meal from the dining hall, and descends one level to the infirmary. He's stayed out of here almost entirely, except for brief instances of his death toll: even then, he's retreated before he strictly should have, knowing Dr. Banner's opinion of him. It's only polite, not to stay where you are not wanted.

He isn't driven by politesse this time, though his mien remains so. Unerringly, he seeks Bruce out.]

Doctor Banner.

[The meal is carefully covered with a clean cloth, to help keep it warm in lieu of an actual covering. He holds it carefully in front of him, not proffering it just yet.] I hope you have a moment to spare.

[Spam for Mal]

[Later, much later, after life has seeped back into his body, Hannibal lays in his room, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the tell tale sound of Mal entering his cabin. She will have to walk through the office first, but despite the pounding in his temples, he expects to hear it. He lies half curled on his side, staring at the open entrance to his bedroom where a set of armor is supposed to rest. His mind paints it in when he closes his eyes, and he waits, focusing on his breathing rather than the pain that breathing causes.]

Once, there were three fisherman. Friends and sometimes rivals, all. At the end of a long day, they came together with their catch to judge who had done the best, and found that all three of them had only caught fugu. They jested some halfhearted arguments as to the sizes, but all three knew that to make a proper meal of their catches could be deadly. None of the fishermen were willing to confess to their fear, so they went home to prepare their stew. As knowledgeable fishermen, they knew which parts were most poisonous. They removed the liver and the ovaries, and when the stew was done it smelled delicious.

But when it came time to taste, no one stepped forward. "Let us find someone else to test it," said the wisest of them. "We will bring some to the beggar in town. We will be seen doing a kindness, and in turn, he will do us one." the fishermen all nodded their agreement, and packed a bowl for the beggar. All together, they went to find the beggar. The old man was surprised but grateful, and seemed to enjoy the stew immensely. When nothing had happened to him, the fishermen delightedly returned home to partake of their meal.

The next day, the beggar saw them on their way to the water to begin their day again. He was delighted to see that they were in good health - for he had hidden the stew, and only pretended to eat when the fisherman asked how it was. He knew better than to trust a stranger.

[Hannibal pauses and gives the ghost of a smile.]

Some men are wise, and some men only believe they are so.

Fugu is the Japanese word for pufferfish. They are considered delicacies there, and rightfully so. Fugu sashimi and milt are quite excquisite. A good fugu chef will not serve the liver, as that is where the potent neurotoxin is at its most powerful: but the flesh surrounding the liver is tender, and much less poisonous. It will likely not kill a man, but good fugu will leave the lips and tongue tingling.

[The smile fills out.]

A reminder, of how close one has brushed death.

( notes for Mal, Damon, Abigail, Alana )

[Hannibal is seated at his desk, the camera balanced against something there: he is dressed in a tux, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in his hand. He sips it gracefully.]

Consider the ortolan.

[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]

( warning for inhumane practices toward animals in cooking )

[Spam for Ned]

[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]

[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]

[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.

Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.

Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.

It's opening night.]


(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)

Excuse me.

[The man on screen is dapper as fuck, a faint crease in his brow marking his confusion. The suit he wears is a touch dated, plainer than most of the plaid numbers he usually prefers: this is a plain, grey, though considerably well tailored number that looks like it would be better suited to the last century.

Or to a particular breach in Oxford. If you look closely, there is a black nose peeking out over his shoulder, from under the collar of his jacket. It's fitted very particularly, so that Boudica can hide there unnoticed. It helps that the mink is not overly large.]

Ask now, [she whispers into his ear. Hannibal glances toward his shoulder, then back to the camera.]

This will sound very strange, I am certain. Please bear with me; I only wish to understand the state of things.

[Unseen, Boudica digs her claws into his back in her impatience; Hannibal makes no outward reaction.]

Where are your daemons?

[Private to Mal]

A favor.

[He will absolutely go elsewhere if she says no. ]

[Private to Esther]

Your gift was lovely. Forgive me for being remiss in returning the favor, and allow me to make it up to you.

[Open Spam]

( late night decorating )

[Spam for Alana]

( he is in control. )

[Hannibal isn't one to advertise when he is thrown. He wakes in the morning and sorts things out, so that when he does come on screen later in the day, he's every inch as put together as he was when last he was seen up and about.

Or so he thinks. He's actually wearing this get up as if it was the most natural thing in the world.]

That was rather impromptu for a nap.

[He may be dryer than usual. It's really just so hard to tell.]

I believe there are festivities waiting for us in the gym. It would be a shame not to indulge, so close to Christmas. Perhaps there will even be some small wonders. I've come to realize you never really know, here.

[Private to Alana]

How have you found the Barge thus far? [Hi 8) What do you know 8|]

[Private to the Admiral]

A beginner's cook book for everyone, if you please. Worded appropriately simply for those that require it.

For Alana, her private reserve of beer, from my home. [Lass beer is delicious beer, after all.]

I would like hunting clothes, for Abigail. Camouflage shirt, vest, and waders. And a hat.

David ought to have cooking supplies. His book should be much more advanced.

For Ned, some sausage for Digby, and a new set of kitchen towels.

Happy Christmas.

[Floods are fascinating things. They lead to abrupt changes in personality, cause vast departures of characters. They remove control from any given human, and Hannibal has never been fond of the idea of relinquishing control. He doesn't have to deal with that today, but he is all too happy to pretend - and pretend well - that he is.

When the feed begins, Hannibal sits at his desk, a smile on his face. Not his usual, neutrally pleasant look, but a real, wide smile. Look how happy he is to speak to everyone. He sells it well: Hannibal is a mimic at heart, and there have been more than enough posts to the network thus far to form his own caricature. So, he smiles, keeps his tone light. There are, after all, truces to be taken advantage of.]

Good afternoon.

I feel as thought I ought to make a gesture of goodwill. [He spreads his hands in a calculatedly helpless gesture.] There are not, however, many venues open to me. My talents are no longer considered safe ones. Were it in my power, I would prepare a dinner party for you all. Food is, after all, a great comfort. It fills and warms, it makes us feel safe and comforted. My palette has been called discriminating, but I do in fact excel at comfort food.

[That was for Abigail. He lets his smile turn a touch forlorn.]

But I am barred from kitchens, infirmary, even from the therapeutic efforts so many of us need.

[Thanks Charles.]

It seems as though all that's left to offer is my bared throat. [the smile has faded, and he looks sad, regretful. He feels none of this, but he sells it very, very well: he is the consummate actor.]

Please. If there is anything I may do to ease the suffering here, inform me. I will do whatever is necessary.

[It's veiled, thickly, but this is his bring it on, his come out come out wherever you are. He wants to know if the greater Barge consciousness has begun to forget if not forgive, to be consumed by more personal pains and fears. He wants to take advantage of whatever the flood has to offer.]

[Private to Ryan]

[It's early afternoon when Hannibal contacts Ryan. He's in his cabin - his practice - and affects a pleasant countenance.]

I know it is short notice, but would you like to join my for lunch?

[Sort of infirmary spam]

[This isn't much of a spam, but because Hannibal is a terrible person who does terrible things, he very thoughtfully brings food to those poor souls trapped in the infirmary. It's light fare - soups, mostly, and some small solid dishes, to help with recovery. He's careful to make it look as though it could have come from the mess hall, and though he calls it chicken or pork or beef, it's made of the week's leftovers.]

[Public Video]

[It's late afternoon, and Hannibal is sitting in his practice. His legs are crossed, communicator propped on a small table to his right. He holds a glass of wine in hand, and says nothing at first, so it seems almost accidental, that it was not his intent to film this.

But nothing Hannibal does is accidental.

He turns just slightly, enough that it's clear he's addressing the Barge.]

There have been three-- [he pauses, smiles to himself as if enjoying an inside joke] --or perhaps four murders this week. There was one hostage taken. And there was, given how many officers of the law we have here, a surprising lack of procedure. [He pauses, sips his wine, and that silence just screams that he wonders how these officers and agents feel about that.] I imagine that must irk some of you.

When I came here, I introduced myself as Garrett Hobbs, and with good reason. [It's easier to play the father when no questions about surnames are asked; and it's easier to make his own impression, when no one is relying on knowledge of another man with his name to fill in the blanks. Those are his to fill in or black out as he pleases.] I'd like to amend that now.

[He finally turns to fully face the camera, and he is every inch the good doctor, the accomplish psychiatrist, the man who can take apart his patients or victims with one careful look. His eyes bore not into the communicator, but into everyone watching him.]

My name is Hannibal Lecter. And I have been getting away with murder for years.

[There is the hint of a satisfied smile in the corners of his eyes and lips, and he pauses to sip again, holding his audience's gaze when he goes on.]

The Piemaker is in his room; the door is open. No need to break it down. There are also several left overs in his kitchen; I would hate to see them go to waste. [There is no need to say, I ate them, no need to point out who he fed them to.] My cabin is on level four, room eight. My door is, as ever, [as any good therapist's ought to be] open as well.

[And he does smile, now, because, soft but pleased, because there are 'two' missing people, now, and no one has found the Emperor. Annoyed as he is at having to forgo his poetic pose for the man, this will be an added entertainment during the days to come. He reaches out and kills the feed, still smiling.]

[When the video clicks on, Hannibal is sitting at his desk, in his office. His expression is that of slight regret, almost-sorrow. He's never over the top. Ironically, he is somewhat sad about this.]

It appears that Alice Morgan has vanished from the ship as well. I am sorry to be the one to announce it. [Which is really just a dig at Bond for not saying it himself fml]

[Private to Abigail]

[He doesn't flip a switch for her, because it is a legitimate regret - but he pushes it aside with ease. And does not smirk.]

Have dinner with me tonight.

I understand that inmates are not often allowed jobs while they lack a warden. However, given the shortage of everyday specializations here, I would like to offer my services nonetheless.

Who is in charge of the infirmary and the kitchen?

[He knows exactly who's responsible, but he wants them coming to him. He's been enjoying his people watching.]

[Filtered to Mark and Charles]

You two are the soul providers of therapy on board, I understand. I would like to alleviate your burdens.

[Private to Alice]

Your taste in wine is impeccable. We should share another bottle, soon.

[The video comes on to a man sitting on a beautifully upholstered couch, in an oddly but unarguably well decorated room. He doesn't smile; there's a faint frown between his brow. He sits very strait, and holds the communicator angled in his lap. His appearance is immaculate, tie straight, suit in order, not one dark hair out of place. And he gives the feeling that this is how he always dresses, that casual is not a word in his vocabulary.]

It seems a shame I've arrived in time to miss a vacation. I've never been to Los Angeles. I imagine it must be very inviting, especially after so much time spent here.

[Pleasantries out of the way, his frown deepens, pulls at the corner of his mouth as his brow furrows.]

My name is Garret Hobbs. I've not been here long, and I would appreciate whatever information you may be willing to impart.

[He wouldn't, not really; he's read a great deal, and he doubts he'll hear anything new. But he'll hear from the people who spoke to Abigail. He'll see who pays attention. And he'll hear from her.]