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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.]
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I assure you, I'm quite capable of keeping up. [Of surpassing.]
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It would be too quick.
So he walks in silence, doing as he promised and keeping up. Bruce isn't the Hulk anymore, and Hannibal is, if not used to wandering catacombs like this, adept in desperate situations. So when he hears someone else coming, he doesn't warn Bruce. He feigns tripping on a bone, and lets the creature - man, perhaps - attack the other doctor first.]
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[ What, he's not quite prepared for. ]
[ He shifts to the side, for the scrabbling thing-that-is-not-Hannibal-but-still-wants-to-eat-him to catch the hem of his shirt and rip it sharply. The years spent in Brazil, studying with his maestro to help master his body was well spent. He weaves in avoidance, body far more flexible than his usual, rigid control would suggest. ]
[ Hannibal isn't going to help him; he knows that to his bones. He doesn't have to worry about his heartrate spiking, but he does have to worry about scrabbling nails, biting teeth. Blood's drawn, and it's his, on ragged filthy nails. ]
[ This is going to go poorly, he can feel it. (It should not excite him that he can die, for the first time in over a decade he feels normal, mortal -- feverishly alive, like a real man. )]
[ (It shouldn't, but it does. ) ]
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He sees the weapon he wants.
The native reaches for it, a crude knife good for carving up meat. He slides the pack from his shoulders, taking in Bruce's agility. He moves on silent feet, circles behind the man with his knife, and just before he can swing for Bruce's jugular again, Hannibal wraps his arms around his shoulders, neck, grabs and twists--
The crack is audible, and Hannibal allows his body to turn with the momentum, uses the creature's thin frame to hide how he palms the knife, slips it into his sleeve with all the ease of someone used to the task. He doesn't rise immediately, instead turning the man over onto his back, peering at his face in the dark.]
Will you bring a light, please?
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[ But he complies for the moment, bringing his flashlight back to bear, as he comes closer. ]
Guess that's the local population.
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Hannibal peels back the man's lips slowly, carefully, revealing the sharpened teeth in a slack jaw.]
Look. They've been filed.
[He's waiting for Bruce to bend closer. Waiting for the opportune moment. It will come.]
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[ He does lean over, despite his moment of morbid humor, aiming his flashlight down into the rotted, sharp maw. He did not show disgust-- just neutral interest. ]
[ Strange, how doctors can remove themselves from so much, when they have to. ]
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[Hannibal does not find it so strange. But as Bruce leans down for a better look, he palms the knife again, hiding it against his knee - until he shifts, as if to rise.
Instead of standing, he sinks the blade deep into Bruce's gut, carefully avoiding the organs he wants. With his free hand, he shoves the other doctor back, straightening to trap him against the wall.]
Such a shame.
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[ Any other way, and he could fight. Dodge, weave, loop. Hear the songs of his maestro and go into the dance. ]
[ But no. ]
[ No, he just gives an strangely relaxed sigh. ]
I'm very disappointed that it's you.
But to die... finally...
[ He exhaled again. ]
Finally.
[ He knows now that he can. That? Is like bliss. ]