🍴 ( 014 ) spam

[youwill]

[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.]

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spam

[mirrortouch]

[ It's enough to wake him - easy to, when he's been breathing in this gas nearly his entire slumber.

He comes to with a jerk of his limbs, braced and ready at once - breathing labored, sweat coloring the front of his shirt, his pupils even constrict when he looks up towards the source of the sound. The thing is, he's stopped expecting things around here. It doesn't leave him so unprepared in the wake of strange things coming his way. It doesn't leave him so unprepared for the sight of Hannibal Lecter looming over him in his sleep, easy as breathing. ]

I smell -

[ Something. Tea? With a heel of his hand pushed into one of his eyes, he starts to really come to, sitting up and peering Hannibal over with a new kind of defensiveness to both his gaze and his tone. It's unfamiliar. He doesn't like it. ]

How long have you been standing there?

[anewlanguage]

[Cain hears him, and sets out after him, those soft and measured steps. If he stopped and thought he wouldn't be able to recall the last time he went hunting; but in the moment it's all a blur, as if he's always been prowling, as if there have been no pauses between one blow and the next.

He's a stealthy man by nature, but for this one...]

You look like a man with a mission.

[with_my_teacup]

[A staircase between level six and seven; Riddick is braced easily, boots on one side of the doorframe, back to the other, watching the bumper cars. Round pegs in a square corridor; there are spots that it's harder for them to get to, especially when they all converge. He's mapping the quieter spots when he hears Hannibal above the whirr of angry machines.

He looks back into the stairwell, frowning, doesn't look at the rucksack of supplies sitting on the landing beside him because that would be telegraphing and he has no idea what Lecter's after.]

laaaate

[orderfromchaos]

[Dillon looks - off. His clothes are neat as always, unrumpled, untorn, stained here and there with perfect ovoids of blood where he was wounded and healed, his shirt automatically mending, leaving only select signs of an earlier wound. The waterline on his pants from wading is as even as a level. His hair is in crisp array, like any airbrushed hollywood hero's, out of place with the tired, ragged way he holds his shoulders, the tight bitterness around his mouth. There's blood dried on his hands, too, and that isn't his. He should be looking where he's going, especially in the maze, but he isn't. He's stumbling, angry and reckless, and his healing clears the gas as quickly as he breathes it, leaving no illogical fear to replace the logical sort he lost long ago, when danger became something that only happened to people around him.]