🍴 ( 013 ) spam

[youwill]

[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.]

Comments

[lastincident]

[ Bruce is used to waking up in strange places, in strange condition. The vagaries of the heric life. He shifts, not yet recognizing the voice, the touch. ]

Don't-- let me center-- don't want to hurt you.

[ Come back into his skin, be sure of himself. Make sure there's no residual panic. But the -- power isn't there. The other guy is never really gone-- but it's like he's muffled, bound, weary. ]

[ Ah; one of those ports. ]

[lydiascreams]

[Lydia still hasn't found Stiles or Scott. When running away from-- whatever those things that were chasing them were, she ended up splitting up from Elsa and Vin and she's on her own. Not only that, but she seems to have lost her communicator while running away. She needs to find someone else from the Barge so she can find the boys.

At first, she starts toward his direction because she sees the fire. She figures she should approach carefully since she doesn't know this-- man? She can't really see from that far away. But he seems to be the only one there.

Just as she comes close enough to make out his profile, though, Lydia stops.

She feels death. It makes her shiver but she can't really tell for sure what she's feeling. If it's something that is coming, or something that has happened. Everything feels dulled here. Even her scream hadn't been as strong as it normally was.

And the man doesn't look dangerous but she's too smart to go on appearances alone. So she lingers, unsure if she should approach him or try to find someone else.]

[characterdefect]

[Roderick comes across Hannibal on the fourth day.]

[By this time, he has made his own kill. Just one, so far, a native who's in the wrong place at the wrong time, alone and wounded. As far as satisfaction goes, it barely whets his appetite.]

[There is blood under his nails and caked onto his shirtsleeves, as well as seeping into the wooden handle of the crude blade he stole from his victim. This is somewhat soothing to him, a particularly feral sort of creature comfort.]

[The fire's a surprise, though. He smiles in its light.]

Fancy meeting you here, Doctor.

[mirrortouch]

[ They move from camp to camp because it's easier - it calls attention to itself, certainly (though this one, mysteriously empty), but it's all the safer, all the better accommodation so long as you don't think too deeply about what it is you're sleeping on.

Will hasn't done much sleeping in the last few days. He shuts his eyes and Harvey decides his fate with a flip of a coin, deeming him a liability. A pickaxe would do nicely. He shuts his eyes and he sees natives swarming, pulling him limb from limb for his crimes against their race. He trusts nothing of his surroundings, and though it's taking a toll, it doesn't stop him from wandering.

Harvey is asleep, and Will can't help but stretch his legs, restless in this place and the bleak, claustrophobic kind of atmosphere it presents. He makes his way through a tunnel, a slant upward and into a clearing, another camp close by that could have proved a problem, had they traveled much of the perimeter. Exhaustion has made him lazy, but he finds his tensions perking as he lays pressed up against the cavern wall, head cocked around the corner to get a better look.

It's not more natives. Though it is recognizable.

(He hears it vaguely, a huff of a stag trailing behind him.)

Savagery is easy to come by in a place like this, with beings so innately violent taking up residence. He sees a Hannibal Lecter mussed and bloodied. Sated. Alive. And intrigue has always been a large part of a very specific kind of downfall.

He approaches with his hands spread wide, not a sign of submission but certainly a placating one - 'I will not hurt you,' it says, even with Zane's gun is tucked into the waistline of his pants. (Savagery is often unpredictable, but that's not to say there's no preparing for it.) Even with his own clothes soaked red as well, blood caked randomly about his forearms - there's only so much he could wash off. ]

Making yourself at home, I see.

[exnihilo]

[It's easier to go down; easy to end up in the depths. She smells smoke before she sees light, follows it. Follows anything that offers clear direction here. She's a little wild-eyed, bloody, gore-tipped pickaxe slung over one shoulder. Her legs are scraped by stone but the polymer weave armor of her dress is unbreached; it's not her blood. She draws toward the fire with an uncertain slink like an ancient, early dog, not yet sure if it is still too wild to stand the flickering light.]