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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.]
spam
Everything is amplified today, sounds louder, double meanings behind words, something in that smile he recognizes and should know better. He feels sharp and aware, and without hesitation he wraps that ruined t-shirt around his hand and takes a few tentative, barefoot steps out into the hallway.
No one around, but the funhouse mirror is something else entirely. His impression is left taller, wavering, pitch black in color and growths start sprouting upward into the shape of unmistakable antlers. With vehemence, it means Will does just as Hannibal says and breaks the mirror - it's not that he's necessarily a willing participant so much as he knows he needs the weapon.
And he doesn't want to see the consequences of this mirror in particular. Something's wrong. Something's off. But he has a shard nearly the length of his forearm, sharp and dangerous when he turns back to the room, eyes fixated on Hannibal as he pads his way back inside. ]
These weren't here before. [ Useless, of course they weren't. ] What else is out there?
[ And what in the hell is Hannibal planning? ]
spam
He watches Will walk outside, closes the distance to the bars where he can begin shaping and sharpening his weapon. Where he can keep a close eye on the other man.
He doesn't smile at the obvious statement: he waits for the correction, listening to the metal sing and the glass break.]
A carnival.
[He could leave it at that, force Will to discover the rest for himself. He's tempted.]
Use the shirt as a handle.
[It's a formidable knife, but easy to break: Hannibal wants something sturdier.]
There are piranhas on level three. It's quite flooded.
spam
[ Have they gone mad, do they feel these pricklings of something new and something terrified, fixated and too too sharp as he does?
He doesn't care about piranha. He does particularly care about what's going on regarding these other levels, that's impossible not to, but paranoia is making him jumpy, maybe too much to seek them out. Not unless he's properly armed. If Hannibal's in a fervor as much as he is -
Will knows he's not in danger of Hannibal, not yet. Not if he hasn't killed him yet, but there's something different, something off. Almost manic in his actions, comparatively, with that same damned cool exterior, but he can see it. He can see it in the fervor with which Hannibal sharpens that metal against his door, scrapes one of his bed legs into a sharp edge.
A makeshift machete. Certainly better than Will's shard of glass. He almost thinks of doing the same. If Hannibal's preparing in the way he is - Will looks back at his sad, three-legged cot and back to the other man in question.
Under question he should say, because the next one comes out a bit darker, curious and brittle at the same time. ]
Going hunting?
spam
I am not a hunter.
[The thought makes him almost giddy, pleased at the irony. Words can be so fragile.
Garret Jacob Hobbs was a hunter, and he is not like Garret Jacob Hobbs. He is....more. He has always been more, he will always be more, and the facade of pretending otherwise is growing tiresome.]
Will you fish?