Entry tags:
- [comm] lastvoyages,
- are you listening?,
- blood & charm,
- event: last laugh,
- gone too soon from this earth,
- i could see the steaming of his breath,
- i was eating everybody,
- i was not dreaming i was next to death,
- see?,
- shivs and butterknives,
- shredding the human veil,
- taking advantage,
- trust and honesty,
- trust me c:
🍴 ( 014 ) spam
[Spam for Will]
[He wakes very early. Something is changed, he can tell that almost before he opens the door. He can certainly tell when the small - robotic? - dog tries to take his leg off at the ankle. A solid kick allows him to retreat, to arm himself.
How much easier this would be, if his scalpel was where it ought to be. Instead, he palms a butter knife, good, polished silver, and holds its blade against his forearm. When he ventures out again, he's ready.
He was supposed to be ready.
It's some time before he returns, his head swimming with buried thoughts, buried plans. The mushrooms he finds in their cool, dark hiding place, the cappuccino machine and his tea pot forced to work in tandem. He plans ahead in such fragmented pieces that he's not entirely sure of the path from a to b to c, only that he accomplishes and moves forward, succeeds and proceeds.
He reaches Will's room, pauses just beyond the cell, adrift on a sea of scents and sensations. When he enters, it's on silent feet, tea pot held carefully in hand, one towel folded beneath it. It's noiseless when he sets it down, but when it comes to waking his friend, he pauses, hovering over the other man's bed instead. This is not appropriate. He must say something or leave.]
Will.
[It's nearly a whisper, soft but strong, nearly urgent. Trust. Honesty. He's come with a trade.]
[Open Spam]
[There is blood under his fingernails. He's not sure where it came from, only that he can feel it gush and dry and flake. His fingertips brush his palms around the knife and the duller ends of metal. Metal sharpened against metal. His mind cycles through all the words for it before settling on the only one that matters. Cutlery.
He smiles at his joke, and strides - no, stalks - down the hall. Which hall? He's lost count. He's searching, or hunting, or chasing or being chased; clarity shifts in and out of focus as he moves, an animal used to its stomping grounds, an animal that has finally been given the room to hunt. He is hunting now, hair out of it's usual careful slick back and falling across his eyes. He took off his tie at some point, realizing how much more useful it could be wrapped around someone else's throat than his own. His collar is half unfurled, the top two buttons torn: he is less put together even than his return from Ville de Rachat.
Both occasions were freeing, in their way. Underground, there were no eyes to track him, no judgement but his own.
Now, there is no judgement.
He walks like he is following something, someone. A flutter of a dress, the flash of soft curls, a carefree smile. He shifts, not quite man and not quite animal, but something more and less and hungry.]
[He wakes very early. Something is changed, he can tell that almost before he opens the door. He can certainly tell when the small - robotic? - dog tries to take his leg off at the ankle. A solid kick allows him to retreat, to arm himself.
How much easier this would be, if his scalpel was where it ought to be. Instead, he palms a butter knife, good, polished silver, and holds its blade against his forearm. When he ventures out again, he's ready.
He was supposed to be ready.
It's some time before he returns, his head swimming with buried thoughts, buried plans. The mushrooms he finds in their cool, dark hiding place, the cappuccino machine and his tea pot forced to work in tandem. He plans ahead in such fragmented pieces that he's not entirely sure of the path from a to b to c, only that he accomplishes and moves forward, succeeds and proceeds.
He reaches Will's room, pauses just beyond the cell, adrift on a sea of scents and sensations. When he enters, it's on silent feet, tea pot held carefully in hand, one towel folded beneath it. It's noiseless when he sets it down, but when it comes to waking his friend, he pauses, hovering over the other man's bed instead. This is not appropriate. He must say something or leave.]
Will.
[It's nearly a whisper, soft but strong, nearly urgent. Trust. Honesty. He's come with a trade.]
[Open Spam]
[There is blood under his fingernails. He's not sure where it came from, only that he can feel it gush and dry and flake. His fingertips brush his palms around the knife and the duller ends of metal. Metal sharpened against metal. His mind cycles through all the words for it before settling on the only one that matters. Cutlery.
He smiles at his joke, and strides - no, stalks - down the hall. Which hall? He's lost count. He's searching, or hunting, or chasing or being chased; clarity shifts in and out of focus as he moves, an animal used to its stomping grounds, an animal that has finally been given the room to hunt. He is hunting now, hair out of it's usual careful slick back and falling across his eyes. He took off his tie at some point, realizing how much more useful it could be wrapped around someone else's throat than his own. His collar is half unfurled, the top two buttons torn: he is less put together even than his return from Ville de Rachat.
Both occasions were freeing, in their way. Underground, there were no eyes to track him, no judgement but his own.
Now, there is no judgement.
He walks like he is following something, someone. A flutter of a dress, the flash of soft curls, a carefree smile. He shifts, not quite man and not quite animal, but something more and less and hungry.]
no subject
You are in my way.
[Take or leave. He tastes blood on his tongue, and his adrenaline pumps.]
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He drops out of the doorframe and back into the stairwell, waving a polite hand into the bumper-car infested hall.]
All. Yours.
[Warden.
Warden.
Kill him.
Warden.]
no subject
Thank you.
[He stops thinking, grabbing the rail and launching himself down, aiming for Riddick. Kick, stab, kill, kill, he wants to tear with his teeth until there is nothing left to tear.]
no subject
He's stopped chanting 'warden' to himself and what he's feeling comes out in a nonverbal rumble that sounds more like something a large animal would make than a human. The only reason he hasn't gone for a knife yet is because he's feeling the same screaming intinct to bite and rip and tear with nothing between him and skin.]
no subject
Clear headed, Hannibal knows that in the face of brute strength, you need a balance: agility, strength, cleverness. He is not clearheaded, but the whisper of real thoughts still echo in his head. He kicks out at Riddick's kneecap, stabbing with the butter knife at one of those biceps.]
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Hannibal wrenches, twisting the shank, even as he brings the butter knife up, driving down with every intention of burying it in Riddick's muscular neck. He's strong enough to do it. He knows he has to be.]