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🍴 ( 001 ) Video
[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.]
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.]
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Some of them.
[On the way down she was watching the conversations as they occurred, and she pulls one up - Chris's - hands her communicator over to Hannibal just enough that he can see what she's found, but not take the device for himself. She raises her eyebrows, then pulls away.]
[She wonders what Hannibal will do with him.]
You've talked to almost everyone I talked to, my first day.
[Which makes her indescribably happy. It worked. They remembered her. They remembered what she said about her father. And Arkin, at least, seemed a little concerned at the presence of Garret Jacob Hobbs.]
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When he sees Chris on the communicator, the corners of his mouth twitch in what might be a smile, if it reached his eyes. It doesn't. He feels no immediate urge to dispose of the young man - he rarely does - but should the opportunity present itself - should the necessity arise - Chris D'Amico will be a contender for the menu.
He says nothing on the matter, just lets his eyes settle on hers again.]
You have made attentive friends. Does their concern please you? [He knows it does.]
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[The question makes her roll her eyes, an excruatingly teenaged and wholly genuine response. She's not answering that. He knows it does. Instead she puts her communicator back in her pocket, her head on one side.]
Does it please you?
[To know that in her short time here she's made - okay, call them friends - who are wary enough of Garret Hobbs to tiptoe around the violence they know hides under his skin.]
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Very much. You are a very smart girl, Abigail. [And smart girls know how to manipulate, know how to make allies more than friends.
In any case, she's given him a place to start. He'll begin with the people who know her, who have come to be concerned about her, and he will circle out from there. Knowing who and what he deals with here is a necessity.]
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[A little flatly; not smart enough. Though she's doing the best she can, being strong, pushing through, she can't forget. The feeling of an almost painless slice of the pale skin at her throat, the oncoming rush of cold, the feel of her blood pooling in her collarbone, and the softness of his hands in her hair. His voice in her ear. Shh, shh.]
[Did he say anything? Did he sing her a song, or did she imagine that, as she lay dying?]
[Not smart enough.]
What happened to Will?
[This curiously. She finds she's less invested than she expected to be. Death gives her perspective - whatever happened to him, it's not as bad as what happened to her. But she was a part of whatever Hannibal chose to do to Will, and so she wants to know.]
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And here she is, breathing, walking, talking. How lucky they are.
He doesn't answer at first, just observes her in silence. Her curiosity - he wonders if there is worry there, too, but no. Nothing can hurt her so much as what's already been done to her. Inhaling slowly, Hannibal breathes in her scent, her sweat, and exhales again.]
He was arrested. [He doesn't feign sorrow, doesn't have to - but he doesn't let himself smile, either. Not yet.]
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[There's a small part of her that's offended. She was killed so Hannibal could get Will arrested. That's so - microcosmic. It's baffling. Too small-scale, she thinks, now that she's gotten a glimpse of who Hannibal really is. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem enough.]
[So it must not be.]
[She tilts her head, hair falling half-over her face as she considers him. He's pleased. He must be. She nods.]
But you won't get to take the next step. Because you're here.
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He's not concerned he'll miss it; everything he's read says that time will not pass, while he's here.]
He was arrested for so many murders, Abigail. The perfect copycat. It's a wonder he was caught.
[But they'll never catch him.]
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[She says it flatly, crossing her arms and shaking her head.]
It's nothing compared to what you could do, and you, of all people, wouldn't perform to less than your full potential. You know how good you are, and you want to prove it to everyone, but especially to Will.
[There's something else, too. She'll get there eventually; it digs at the back of her mind. But for now, she can't realize it completely.]
It's not a wonder. It's a work of art. But it's incomplete.
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You see a lot. [It's a concession without conceding, and he smiles at her, indulgent - she's smart, but not quite seeing the grand picture.]
It's been said on the network that not all who brought here are dead. That even time cannot move while we are held here. And all too often, people have simply vanished, presumably to return to their lives. Or deaths.
[She is very much dead, but everything about his tone and posture says he very much is not.]
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But that's out of your control.
[One way or another, whether what he's saying is true or not, his existence here is out of his control. When he goes home is out of his control, too.]
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[And it rankles, but he doesn't let on how badly. Control is tantamount to him; recognizing how control has been ripped from his hands here is rather maddening.
Still. He manages to cock his head to the side in observation, as if this is her problem, and not his own.]
It can be good for us, to place control in another's hands. It teaches a lesson. Don't you think?
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I think some of us need it.
[She's talking, of course, about both of them. Even though he's more beautiful, a more pure artist, in control - she wants control. And if she can't have it, then he shouldn't, either.]
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