[Spam | Day 1]

( Read more... )

[Public | Day 5]

[When the camera comes on, the first thing visible is a long dinner table, with a veritable feast laid out on it. It looks very fine, the kind of thing you'd find in a Michelin class restaurant, from an award winning chef. Hannibal may have won no awards, but his presentation is certainly top notch.]

Hello.

[He wears a very pleasant smile, standing behind the seat at the head of the table. His hands rest on the chair's back. To his left sits Alana. Hannibal inclines his head to the viewers.]

There is little either of us can contribute to fixing the Barge. [They could bring back supplies, but really - they had a much better way to spend their time.] We can however offer a repast to those who have worked so tirelessly, in one manner or another.

[Wardens, inmates, those working to fix the Barge and those working to escape it. It doesn't matter who comes, just this once, so long as their table manners are impeccable. Hannibal takes a glass of wine from the table, and lifts it in a toast.]

I've attached the address. Please, join us at your leisure - but I would not advise you to dawdle. Only the first course is served cold.

[Spam for Bruce]

[Hannibal has kept his nose clean. He's pushed, here and there, but ultimately he's avoided confrontation, even in the event of his own deaths. He has been, all things considered, very well behaved. But there is a certain boredom to the rote, to living amongst those he does not care for and cannot use. The Barge has become a dull place to him, in some ways, and that is unacceptable.

It's clear enough that things are about to become interesting again, but reprising his role as the inmate on the other Barge is not useful to him. The most recently past flood, however, was: he's been waiting for the right moment, and he's found it.

Taking plate and cutlery from his own room, Hannibal piles the former high with a neat meal from the dining hall, and descends one level to the infirmary. He's stayed out of here almost entirely, except for brief instances of his death toll: even then, he's retreated before he strictly should have, knowing Dr. Banner's opinion of him. It's only polite, not to stay where you are not wanted.

He isn't driven by politesse this time, though his mien remains so. Unerringly, he seeks Bruce out.]

Doctor Banner.

[The meal is carefully covered with a clean cloth, to help keep it warm in lieu of an actual covering. He holds it carefully in front of him, not proffering it just yet.] I hope you have a moment to spare.

[Spam for Mal]

[Later, much later, after life has seeped back into his body, Hannibal lays in his room, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the tell tale sound of Mal entering his cabin. She will have to walk through the office first, but despite the pounding in his temples, he expects to hear it. He lies half curled on his side, staring at the open entrance to his bedroom where a set of armor is supposed to rest. His mind paints it in when he closes his eyes, and he waits, focusing on his breathing rather than the pain that breathing causes.]

[Private to Mal]

A favor.

[He will absolutely go elsewhere if she says no. ]

[Private to Esther]

Your gift was lovely. Forgive me for being remiss in returning the favor, and allow me to make it up to you.

[Open Spam]

( late night decorating )

[Spam for Alana]

( he is in control. )

[Floods are fascinating things. They lead to abrupt changes in personality, cause vast departures of characters. They remove control from any given human, and Hannibal has never been fond of the idea of relinquishing control. He doesn't have to deal with that today, but he is all too happy to pretend - and pretend well - that he is.

When the feed begins, Hannibal sits at his desk, a smile on his face. Not his usual, neutrally pleasant look, but a real, wide smile. Look how happy he is to speak to everyone. He sells it well: Hannibal is a mimic at heart, and there have been more than enough posts to the network thus far to form his own caricature. So, he smiles, keeps his tone light. There are, after all, truces to be taken advantage of.]

Good afternoon.

I feel as thought I ought to make a gesture of goodwill. [He spreads his hands in a calculatedly helpless gesture.] There are not, however, many venues open to me. My talents are no longer considered safe ones. Were it in my power, I would prepare a dinner party for you all. Food is, after all, a great comfort. It fills and warms, it makes us feel safe and comforted. My palette has been called discriminating, but I do in fact excel at comfort food.

[That was for Abigail. He lets his smile turn a touch forlorn.]

But I am barred from kitchens, infirmary, even from the therapeutic efforts so many of us need.

[Thanks Charles.]

It seems as though all that's left to offer is my bared throat. [the smile has faded, and he looks sad, regretful. He feels none of this, but he sells it very, very well: he is the consummate actor.]

Please. If there is anything I may do to ease the suffering here, inform me. I will do whatever is necessary.

[It's veiled, thickly, but this is his bring it on, his come out come out wherever you are. He wants to know if the greater Barge consciousness has begun to forget if not forgive, to be consumed by more personal pains and fears. He wants to take advantage of whatever the flood has to offer.]

[Private to Ryan]

[It's early afternoon when Hannibal contacts Ryan. He's in his cabin - his practice - and affects a pleasant countenance.]

I know it is short notice, but would you like to join my for lunch?

[Sort of infirmary spam]

[This isn't much of a spam, but because Hannibal is a terrible person who does terrible things, he very thoughtfully brings food to those poor souls trapped in the infirmary. It's light fare - soups, mostly, and some small solid dishes, to help with recovery. He's careful to make it look as though it could have come from the mess hall, and though he calls it chicken or pork or beef, it's made of the week's leftovers.]

[Public Video]

[It's late afternoon, and Hannibal is sitting in his practice. His legs are crossed, communicator propped on a small table to his right. He holds a glass of wine in hand, and says nothing at first, so it seems almost accidental, that it was not his intent to film this.

But nothing Hannibal does is accidental.

He turns just slightly, enough that it's clear he's addressing the Barge.]

There have been three-- [he pauses, smiles to himself as if enjoying an inside joke] --or perhaps four murders this week. There was one hostage taken. And there was, given how many officers of the law we have here, a surprising lack of procedure. [He pauses, sips his wine, and that silence just screams that he wonders how these officers and agents feel about that.] I imagine that must irk some of you.

When I came here, I introduced myself as Garrett Hobbs, and with good reason. [It's easier to play the father when no questions about surnames are asked; and it's easier to make his own impression, when no one is relying on knowledge of another man with his name to fill in the blanks. Those are his to fill in or black out as he pleases.] I'd like to amend that now.

[He finally turns to fully face the camera, and he is every inch the good doctor, the accomplish psychiatrist, the man who can take apart his patients or victims with one careful look. His eyes bore not into the communicator, but into everyone watching him.]

My name is Hannibal Lecter. And I have been getting away with murder for years.

[There is the hint of a satisfied smile in the corners of his eyes and lips, and he pauses to sip again, holding his audience's gaze when he goes on.]

The Piemaker is in his room; the door is open. No need to break it down. There are also several left overs in his kitchen; I would hate to see them go to waste. [There is no need to say, I ate them, no need to point out who he fed them to.] My cabin is on level four, room eight. My door is, as ever, [as any good therapist's ought to be] open as well.

[And he does smile, now, because, soft but pleased, because there are 'two' missing people, now, and no one has found the Emperor. Annoyed as he is at having to forgo his poetic pose for the man, this will be an added entertainment during the days to come. He reaches out and kills the feed, still smiling.]