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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.
[Private to Mal]
I suppose you fared well during the latest odyssey?
[Private to Damon]
Forgive me for not saying it sooner, but your actions with Maladicta upon your arrival were inspired.
[Spam for Abigail]
[He does not bother knocking, when he reaches her door. Instead he stands outside it, carefully taping three things to her door. It is, as is his wont, artful. The first page, trimmed to have rounded edges, has German lyrics, beautifully written out. It looks calligraphic. It is taped at an angle, and, overlapping at the corner, is another page, similarly trimmed, similarly written. It is the English translation of the song.
Between the pages, he very carefully tapes a rosehip, with its many shades, red and purple and black.
When he finishes, he admires the lay out for a moment before turning to go.]
[Spam for Alana]
[He carries a manilla folder gently, so as not to smudge any of the lines within. He walks with a little smile on his face, though he doesn't offer it to anyone he passes. This smile is not for them, and neither is what he holds. When he reaches Alana's cabin door, he pauses to make certain the trip did not blur any of his carefully drawn lines, and knocks.]
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.
[Private to Mal]
I suppose you fared well during the latest odyssey?
[Private to Damon]
Forgive me for not saying it sooner, but your actions with Maladicta upon your arrival were inspired.
[Spam for Abigail]
[He does not bother knocking, when he reaches her door. Instead he stands outside it, carefully taping three things to her door. It is, as is his wont, artful. The first page, trimmed to have rounded edges, has German lyrics, beautifully written out. It looks calligraphic. It is taped at an angle, and, overlapping at the corner, is another page, similarly trimmed, similarly written. It is the English translation of the song.
Between the pages, he very carefully tapes a rosehip, with its many shades, red and purple and black.
When he finishes, he admires the lay out for a moment before turning to go.]
[Spam for Alana]
[He carries a manilla folder gently, so as not to smudge any of the lines within. He walks with a little smile on his face, though he doesn't offer it to anyone he passes. This smile is not for them, and neither is what he holds. When he reaches Alana's cabin door, he pauses to make certain the trip did not blur any of his carefully drawn lines, and knocks.]
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And it's not a mistake I want to spend hours wardening for. My first deal should have put things on the right path again.
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Specifically he ran off with my car and without saying goodbye to Chuck. Off to explore the world, or find himself, or something. I don't know.
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So step one was to make sure his little girl would be safe around me. I can't bring back the last twenty years but I can promise to make it so Chuck won't die by accidental touching.
And step two is...tracking him down, I guess. Trying to find him in the whole...big, wide world.
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And then you die, suddenly and without warning.
And then you wake up, suddenly and without warning and your little girl is now just over thirty years old and she's telling you it's twenty years into the future and you look like a corpse and you have to stay hidden away from the world, forever. And the person who killed you is trying to put down laws and rules because he's so scared of being found out, he puts your freedom and happiness at the very bottom of his list of priorities.
It's not difficult to figure out.
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Forgive me, Ned, but with the Admiral's power behind a blank check, perhaps you should have written one preventing his death to begin with.
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And I don't know what happens to me, or to him, or to my own mother. It's too big.
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[He's not necessarily arguing for it - but he's not against it, either. Would he risk growing up a different man, if it meant saving Mischa? He doesn't have an answer to a hypothetical, but he likes to think it would be yes.]
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But I'm worried I'd be losing it and betting it for something worse.
This is why I never go to Vegas.
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Do you ever...cling to something as tight as you can, and then something else comes by that might be even better for you, but instead of being satisfied with what you have, you're willing to risk letting go of the first to try for the second and end up losing both?
Sorry, that. Didn't make much sense.
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[Ned's confidence in himself - or lack thereof - wanders a line between charm and annoyance.]
The answer is, more or less, yes. You must be willing to risk greatly, in order to be happy.
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