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[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.]
[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.]
no subject
But she's not ready to reveal herself as being completely unarmed just yet. Especially when she doesn't even have a way to get help.]
Do you have some kind of schedule for them? Do you know where we are?
[Lydia steps closer to the fire, but doesn't sit down. She's heard of one Hannibal before. One that is fictional where she's from and she's read books on him. The fact that the man seems to be preparing a meal does nothing to ease the chill up her spine. This is all banshee and none of the cold in these-- caves or wherever the hell they are.]
Are you cooking?
no subject
They don't seem to follow set patrols, no. But they are not overly social, and this campsite is ours, for the time being.
[It's graciousness that leads him to say ours. Reaching out, he turns the spit, inclining his head.]
I am. Are you hungry?
no subject
No, thank you.
[She eyes the spit and suppresses a shudder.]
I didn't see any animals around.
no subject
Her question - not a question, but the heart of it - makes him cock his head.]
They are not used to the light and noise. [He lies and never sounds like he does. His heart rate never raises. It rarely does.] Not easy to find, I'm afraid.
no subject
Something is still not right with this man, though.]
Have you seen anyone else from the Barge around?
no subject
[His veil is disheveled, half off, leaving him half revealed. He has a mask to wear with her that he is reluctant to don again, straddling the monstrous and the civil as he is.
Ultimately, he creases his brow in an expression of concern. His facial control is excellent: Hannibal has always known how to blend in.]
I'm afraid we were separated. I haven't heard from him since yesterday.
no subject
She glances over her shoulder then nods.]
I should try to find my friends. [A beat.]
Will you be okay on your own?