maskormenacelogs | what have you got to lose --

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what have you got to lose --

WHO: Chilton and OPEN!
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.

The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...

There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.

The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.

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The fancy Gallic cuisine restaurant that serves an excellent beet-oriented salad. White table linens, high-rising windows, and a color palette that favor light cerulean -- naturally Chilton would favor this eatery. If you ever have a social appointment with him, this is bound to be the setting.

Edited 2014-07-20 22:47 (UTC)

No appointment today, social or otherwise. Or a reservation for that matter, but that hardly affected a Jedi. When the waiter showed Revan to the table nearest Chilton it is quite by chance.

"Thank you. This will do nicely." Revan offers with a short bow of his head, seemingly completely unfazed when he repeats back the 'this will do nicely' in a strangly vacant tone before leaving. Sitting, he smooths his jacket, a vaguely Mandarin piece: black with loop fasteners up the front, and picks up the menu. His hands are covered in a fine pair of gloves that seem so thin they fit the contours of his hands completely.

However, despite being able to read the menu, many of the dishes proved entirely foreign to him. What were these cassoulet and briskets? Surely the latter was a form of meat based on the context, but from which animal and what cut? Unfortunately, first hand experience had taught him that not all cultures value or disdain the same parts of the anatomy.

With a defeated sigh he looks around, at first for the service to determine how much time he had to choose when he notices Chilton and his fare.

"Pardon me. But I'm curious what it is you have there."

Chilton was, needless to say, rather startled by the invention of this conversation -- caught off-guard, he wasn't immediately dour or (as in his usual way), sassy in response: he simply answered frankly, in his soft voice.

"Ah -- Roquefort salad, with a side of beets, and a glass of Sauvignon blanc, which I may recommend," he said. As he spoke, he glanced over Revan's clothing, noticing its unique disposition. No comment was issued, however, as Chilton was not the sort to be overtly invasive towards strangers in public.

Private invasions, however, were another negotiation altogether.

He rather liked the gloves, but couldn't place the rest of the ensemble. With a quirked tilt of his head, Chilton offered a tight smile.

"I hear the Coq au Riesling is quite enviable."

The man himself had to watch the meat intake. Lost kidney, and what not.

"Oh. It looks delicious." At least now he has form to place to a name. For a moment more he gives the menu one last glance over for posterity before setting down and lacing his fingers together.

It didn't look questionable. So it would have to do.

"This is... embarrassing to ask, so please understand I mean this with sincerity." A slight quirk of his lips, an offering to show he understood the jocosity of the situation. "That is a type of food, correct?"

Chilton indulged in a quick doubletake -- perhaps, months and months ago, he would have assumed that Revan was ridiculing him in some manner, but given Chilton's proximity and experience with various universal denizens now, the reaction was a relatively muted one.

"Ah -- yes, in fact, you are quite correct." His tone, sublimated, tread lightly on his tongue. There was no need to exhibit rudeness, given the unparalleled manners that his company exhibited.

"Won't you have a seat?"

Chilton, who was dining alone, was opened to companionship.

"In case any other questions arise, I mean," he said, quickly justifying his loneliness. "Are you an imPort, too?"

For a polite moment, Revan's brow raises at the offer, cocking his head a degree to side in controlled surprise.

"Oh, well that's very generous." With a half bow that turns into him scooting back from his table he makes his way to the offered seating. As he pulls it back he pauses to give a gesture that swings into a low shrug.

"As long as my naivety doesn't offend, I'd be glad to take advantage of some company."

Sliding into his chair Revan sits back but keeps his posture very upright and tight, yet it appears natural.

"I stick out like a sore thumb don't I?" Revan asks in good humor, leaning forward conspiratorially as he speaks. "The Government here was very thorough with my initiation but I suppose dining etiquette isn't high on their priorities."

His kingdom for a protocol droid.

"It is unfortunate," said Chilton. "How some of us are flung into this situation, expected to streamline adaptation -- though, perhaps that's partially their angle?" He angled his head, his chin lifted centimeters into the air, mimicking well the theatrical measure of thought. "Maybe they're watching to see who adapts to what, and how?"

It was an unnerving speculation.

Chilton shrugged away his own questions, rhetorical as they were in nature. His focus was less interested in governmental oversight and far more invested in watching his current company. What an interesting figure -- polite as he was, and conversational. Chilton had the impression that his company was an educated man, certainly an observant one.

"I'm Doctor Frederick Chilton, by the way," he said by way of introduction. "A fellow imPort, in fact."

"Then thank you, Doctor Chilton, for allowing me your company." Revan offers, tapping the area of his heart gently with the tips of his fingers in gratitude. "I am Revan. ...Just Revan."

Although he did his best to hide it, Revan too examined his company when it was polite and natural. He didn't need the Force to feel Chilton's eye on him as well, following his motions. When they do meet gazes Revan catches the edge of a terribly focused mind, feeling himself being broken down to his base skeletal in those blue eyes.

Almost reflexively Revan pulls away from the gaze, finding a distraction in the approaching waiter.

Perhaps it was just his imagination. At the very least, by his manner and grace, Chilton was certainly a man of learning and class. But there was something else...

"Hmm. That would be an interesting twist." He leans his head aside, sliding a lock of hair into place over his ear. "Though if there was some sort of a nefarious plot afoot it would likely be something far worse."

Ever the optimist.

Just Revan, he has said. It resonated with some sense of celebrity almost, as those singular names tended to hum. Of course, perhaps that was more an Earth conceit than not -- a reference that would likely have been rude to bestow in light conversation with his newly acquainted guest. He wondered if the association (however trivial one might criticize his sense of pop culture), maintained any merit -- was Revan singular? Was there anyone else like him? Other psychiatrists would argue that technically everyone was an individual, and while traits may be shared, they weren't in repetitive combination.

Chilton disagreed with that. Some people were more special than others -- neurologically speaking.

His gaze didn't shift, when Revan's own leapt to the waiter. He recognized the relief of a distraction, understood that he was making his company discomforted, but that alone did not persuade Chilton to mask his baser instincts. He was naturally inclined to analyze; that alone wasn't the crime. What Chilton liked to do with his analysis, well, that was often a moral dilemma.

Or would be considered such, to a man of moral integrity.

"I'm Registered," he admitted with a small smile, one almost sheepish. "But that doesn't mean I lack reserves about our situation. Bit of a rock and a hard place, isn't it? In terms of benefit against cost."

Phrasing it so plainly, as if this was a motion of honesty he carried.

"Needless to say, I wouldn't be surprised, if a nefarious plot were to be revealed. Not all cold wars turn hot -- but some do. And if we're, as I understand it, to be the new proxies by warfare..." Chilton shrugged, finding the conversation appropriate, but feigning disinterest.

Chilton's statement draws Revan's gaze back quite easily. It helps when the topic is an ever-present cause for for import reflection and wonder. And, at least for Revan, curiosity always won over shame.

"Then you find yourself in like company. While I disagree with... the methodology of their process," He says with a gentle tap of his concealed wrist, right over the popular location of the branding tattoo, as an example. "I can sympathize with their position."

Revan closes his eyes and briefly tips his head, as if offering that concession to the universe.

"A government suddenly flooded with a myriad of empowered refugees... I can't imagine their society surviving without some kind of a system in place."

Revan gives a slight shrug, looking over his companion. He noticed disinterested tone, the disconnect from the subject. A hint that he wanted to drop the line of conversation? Or bait? While he wanted to push the subject either way, he would not in civil discourse. He didn't want to be rude to his new acquaintance.

Revan considers his words, proxies by warfare... What did he know? Or did he, like Revan, suspect the motivations for the registration were selfish in nature?

"However intent had always struck me as the most important factor of any sensible enterprise."

"I do find it interesting, the various ways that intent can be weighed." He raised his glass an inch, to complement Revan's tangent with some austere motion. Chilton was, of course, precisely the type of professional who glided over the profundity of intent; it was the vein of evidence (conjecture, as he tried to make it) that could expose his darker sins. A former compatriot, a fellow professional, had unveiled his intent before -- and that began an unpleasant domino effect for Chilton. He was wary of this particular conversation.

But he wouldn't indicate any recently mauled wounds, not at the luncheon table.

"I am, of course superimposing my worldly events onto this scenario," he admitted. "It is perhaps an inescapable bias. In many ways, Heropa's universe is not dissimilar to my own, and that's probably a quiet fallacy simply waiting to entrap me."

A light sip of his wine followed the statement, and Chilton adopted a pondering, introverted stare. It was a little fabricated, for the sake of theatrics.

"I think you're right to illustrate the governmental perspective, however. It would be difficult for them not to find our power -- and resource -- alluring." A swift inclination of his head, and he smiled at Revan.

"I'm sure they would appreciate your perspective. I can't say I'm inclined to fully trust the individuals who have shepherd us hence... But the system is not unfamiliar. The implicit rules and expectations."

Chilton swallowed, darting a more suggestive look.

"Others aren't as generous, naturally. Who knows how long, until a rebellion perks?"

"I fear you may be correct." Revan's eyes narrow, not for any perceived slight, but in an almost tired resignation. There was a pattern. Revan could see pieces moving into place, could feel an approaching upset. But how it was going to happen and in what way still eluded him. As did the part he may play.

"Truth be told I'm not sure some kind of conflict is anything but inevitable. Hello." Revan pivots, greeting the young man who arrives to take his order.

"I will have..." After briefly assuming a pensive expression, he tosses Chilton a fleetingly apologetic smile. "What my friend is having. Sadly my appetite is overwhelming my courage. And it does look quite nice."

"I think you've made a fine choice," he replied, encouraging. Chilton referred both to Revan's cuisine and his conversational detail -- it was comforting, to know that he was speaking with someone who understood this pattern. When the waiter had left, Chilton was careful to watch him walk away, before he resumed his quiet discussion.

"I find the atmosphere most unnerving. Do you also get the feeling that they're simply waiting for a few imPorts to make very bad decisions?"

He didn't need to clarify who they encompassed, and besides that, every time Chilton explicitly mentioned the government by name he grew anxious in increments. What if they were listening? What if their very tattoos could transmit what they were saying, or even doing?

"This world may not be as advanced as some," he continued from that mental tangent. "But the technology these people have invested in seem to be more for surveillance and offense than anything else."

"It feels like... we're all sitting on a leaking powder keg. And in every direction is a flint." He punctuates his point as he speaks by smoothly tracing a circle on the table with the tip of his index finger.

"Be it unchecked imports, as you suggest, giving the government justification for worse than their condescension and second rate treatment. Or one of a multitude of other volatile aspects of this situation." For a brief moment, Revan falls within his own musings -- eyes open but a thousand miles away, Clouded...

"It's almost... infuriating. How spectacularly unaware and unconcerned everyone is. Blind to how terribly wrong this could all turn out."

Recognition, however late, of Chilton's point draw's Revan's gaze back in and leads it to the covered area of his wrist once again. While his expression is passive as he turns his hand up to better see there's an edge to his voice and a coldness creeping into his eyes.

"It may sound a little strange, but I'd almost rather find out they were spying on us."

"I have little doubt that they are," he confessed, either taking the strangeness of the desire in stride -- or finding it perfectly natural. "But we know they've done this before. That's what Holiday claims, isn't it? The other imPorts, the mysterious figures that have come before us."

Chilton leaned back in his chair, picking idly at his food. He didn't resume eating, choosing instead to wait until his company was mutually served his own identical dish. Besides, the conversation at hand was far more interesting that how soft any creamily-treated French beets could taste. That distinction was more likely because Chilton was growing so tired of beets.

"Whatever mistakes the government had made before, with the others, we can assume they learned how not to repeat such failures. Which means," he said, nodding at Revan. "We really ought to be more concerned. Just as you said, it's highly frustrating that most of our number isn't overtly worried about this situation. Or maybe they're too afraid to express it? Maybe they've indulged in cognitive dissonance."

It was a thought worth a paper or two.

"Have you met anyone else here, who is willing to talk about this?"

"We get the honor of their "practiced" care." Revan shakes his head. "I assume that's part of the trouble. They've learned how to cloud our vision. Operate in a way that saves face while masking their agenda. Whatever it might be."

It was to his great chagrin that he shakes his head in response to Chilton's question, peering at his companion with a sympathetic tilt of his head.

"Most of those that object to registration do so to sue for some misguided grab at independence. As if that will spare them from the coming storm."

They could be so lucky. Sadly the simple fact of their presence spoke to quite a different course of events.

"When a line is drawn, it doesn't matter on what side you stand. War has already found you."

It was a chilling sentiment. War has already found you. Chilton shot Revan a sideways glance, as if on the precipice of inquiring: how often as war, then found you? But he restrained himself; it was inappropriate to bring up, right now, in this setting. If ever he could persuade his company into his office, however, and onto his mint blue sedan...

Well.

Chilton had the feeling that Revan possessed a lot of interesting experience.

"What about infiltration?" He asked, feeling somewhat insecure. Chilton himself was Registered, after all, and while he didn't trust anything authority that wasn't his own, he still found it easier to capitulate to the system. To work with the system. And every day, every hour, he was scanning for opportunity.

"People, imPorts, who Register. Who get as close to the workings as possible -- a useful gathering of information."

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exsithstential - 2014-09-15 03:08 (UTC) - Expand

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slightlyoffchilt - 2014-10-06 00:53 (UTC) - Expand

Hannibal was, as expected, on time for their arranged dinner. It would of been rude to be late so he'd made sure he knew exactly where he was going and how to get back from it. A new location meant a whole new area, he didn't know his way around and getting lost didn't prove to be amusing at all. The lack of control in this situation hardly put him in the best of humours either.

He came dressed in his best, despite the weather, seemingly unphased by it with all his needless layers. Jacket, waistcoat, shirt, tie. Nothing forgotten or neglected. He didn't like the heat here though and he certainly wasn't immune to it. It made it much harder to dress how he preferred and the heat in the kitchen could reach unbearable temperatures, he had always preferred cooler temperatures. Fortunately, it wasn't too bad tonight and besides, if he was doing this whole song and dance with Frederick, he was doing it right.

It was strange to think he was actually about to have dinner with a man he'd framed nearly a week ago. And nobody seemed to remember it either, that was weirdly enough the strangest part to him. But then, stranger things had happened.

Gideon, for one, sprung to mind.

He scanned the busy place before catching sight of Frederick sitting not too far away. Approaching slowly, he didn't sit right away. He simply waited till he had the other man's attention, a small friendly smile on his lips, as he offered his hand out as a greet. Formalities always came first.

"Frederick," he greeted, his tone as pleasant as he could make it. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting at all."

He was relieved for the mild restraint he could exhibit; Frederick Chilton did not gasp when Hannibal made polite eye contact. He did not writhe as the other psychiatrist approached gently, reasonably, and nor did he squirm with that anticipating dread that could hollow his stomach. Despite the emotional impulse to enact all of the above, Frederick Chilton maintain a tight, thin smile and a straight spine.

It was a shame, how the color faded from his face. But Chilton (who prided himself on his self-control) often overestimated his own accomplishments.

"Doctor Lecter," he said, artfully rising to his feet in greeting. With a single fluid motion, he moved upwards with his cane -- the familiar black and sable walking stick that was most certainly for display now. Chilton could, and has, exerted himself without the ambling device. Chilton neglected to offer his free hand for a shake -- would that be too distant? He rationalized that it would be, as they were old friends simply dining together. Wasn't that the ruse that both of them engaged. Granted, Chilton was a little late coming into that realization, but perhaps it was better to arrive tardy than not at all.

Especially when the stakes were this grave.

"It's quite the relief to see you again," he lied. His orange tie shone more brightly against his color-drained face. The cologne he wore was a woody, earthen whisk -- a far cry from his usual, sweeter scent. It was if he was trying to obscure his true sentiment with false senses.

"I've yet to order any wine."

Chilton had learned to mask his emotions better than he was once able too, that was quite obvious. Though it wasn't exactly a mind blowing achievement, he couldn't help but find it admirable. The only thing that let the charade down was the small fine little details that distracted him from the well tamed body language being presented. The little things were always what struck Hannibal more, he never took in the whole picture as it was present, he always had to look at the details and scrutinise them till he could form his own truths.

The paler complexion, the refusal for contact and the obvious distance formed between them. It wasn't the reaction of a friend or a trusted colleague. It was suspicion, concern or even fear.

He didn't pull the act apart though, that would spoil the game, he was much happier to play along and see where it took him. Clearly Chilton suspected him of something and if it had been any other man, he might of felt threatened. But he'd ruined Chilton before, he could do it again.

Hannibal was exceptionally confident of that.

"Same. What with the circumstances, it's nice to have familiarity," To a degree, it was. After all, it was just the same players but a different game. The only issue he had was the time lines, it was hard to be on the same page as everyone when they were varying in what they knew.

He gestured for Chilton to take his seat once more before pulling his own out, not wanting to leave the man standing for too long. Especially given that he had clearly now taken to using a cane. Even if it was just a fashionable item, he could humour it.

Once he was seated, he picked up his menu, eyes going straight to the wine list with curiosity. A lot of what a restaurant was could be judged by their wine selection, though little could compare to his own impressive array back home. It would be exceptionally hard to regain that kind of collection here of all places. Yet another frustration of this unwelcomed relocation.

"Do you have a preference yet?"

He didn't think twice to question Hannibal's implicit offer (or was it a command?) to resume his seat; the motion simply spoke with authority, and Chilton could savor authority. Only when he had readjusted himself, his feet well situated beneath the white linen pulled over their table, did Chilton consider that subliminal sway that Hannibal so easily manifested, the soundless manipulation, the agile guile -- or was he simply over-analyzing an individual whom he (regretfully) admired? Hannibal was highly manipulative, and Chilton appreciated that, but the man's technique proved still somewhat shrouded. The Will Graham of Chilton's timeline, back home in Baltimore, had thoroughly discussed Hannibal Lecter from behind the steeled bars of a therapy capsule. Those arguments began to make sense, and Chilton soon saw strings whenever he looked at Hannibal's handiwork. Chilton was convinced that the man he was preparing to dine with was, in fact, the illustrious Chesapeake Ripper. He thirsted for that exposure -- both of Hannibal Lecter's double life, and of Chilton's own fame (yet written in the stars), he needed it. Despite the implicit peril, despite his own cowardly survival, Chilton couldn't help himself; he wanted Hannibal's company. He wanted the man dissected. His panic thawed as ambition clawed at his heart.

The idea seized down his spine: finally catch the Chesapeake Ripper. His guarded smile, that thin quirk, deepened subconsciously.

But yes, caution, Chilton did recall his caution. He had reached out to Jack Crawford for protection, and was denied any conceivable aid. Freddie Lounds, in Heropa, had dangled tidbits of half-truths before him -- the trouble was deciphering what halves were truth. Lounds had claimed a lot of miserable things, with only her honest word as insurance. And if any of her pinched words indicated any truth to Chilton's fate (however unlikely that was), well, then his personal aspirations of achieving the Ripper would soon turn into revenging upon the serial killer.

"I happened to noticed that they carry a few bottles of that 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion," he said. Chilton sought to impress Hannibal, citing the most expensive red wine on the menu. It was like a blood sacrifice. "I think it goes well with. Beets."

Yes, well.

"How do you enjoy your -- ah, housemates?"

A quick deflection tactic, to move quickly away from his intolerance of typical protein ingestion.

It was a lot harder to have certainties any more, especially here of all places. Before things had been easier, everything had flowed nicely and fallen into place when and where he needed it to. Not here. So much had been undone or changed and time wasn't following in any normal manner. It skipped, jumped and rewinded a little more than he appreciated it. He didn't like the thought that some people knew more about his future than he did. It was obvious to him that some people had been told things, it was hard to miss after that rather charming encounter with the person who threatened him on behalf of Gideon. That left an unpleasant feel in him, he wasn't used to this kind of disorder. Damage control was needed and soon but he could only use so much of his influences here.

The only thing he had to work in his favour was that no one seemed to be on the same page. So many different things happening, confusion was bound to happen, misinformation could be rife and all of that added enough cover that he wasn't entirely concerned. Not yet, anyway.

With a slight smile of appreciation, he nodded his head in approval at the selection.

"A fine choice, it's quite a versatile wine. Whenever it comes to beets, the usual assumption is to try to compliment the bitter nature with a more acidic wine. Sometimes contrast can be far more interesting." He can think of better wines and more interesting combinations but this was the price he was paying to humour Frederick. Giving him this freedom of choice to assert himself a little control and build up more confidence.

The more confident, the more relaxed. A more desired outcome.

He doesn't linger on the topic of the food, it's clearly not a desired discussion so it's put aside in favour of small talk, friendly chit chat to fill the silence. Easily done. "I still find it a little strange, if I'm honest. I'm used to living alone so I can't say I'm thrilled with the idea of sharing. But they seem like amicable and pleasant people so I can't complain. I could of done a lot worse."

It wouldn't last, he didn't intend to simply stay 'rooming' with a bunch of stranger like some student. It was on his seemingly endless to-do list here.

"I'm sure it's a temporary thing," Hannibal dismissed, seeming already rather confident about that matter like he already had it all sorted. "I assume you're not still in my kind of situation? Given your time and experience here."

At the expectation that he had in fact moved beyond his humble abode, Chilton flushed; as alluring as independent housing and an aesthetic more suitable to his tastes was, he found himself content with the prospect of a rentless shelter that posed an easy commute to his work. It might have been parasitic of him, but the more he could relieve himself of those necessary financial obligations, the more he could invest in showcasing luxury items.

Chilton was angling to afford a proper vehicle of transportation again, something in the vein of his red Porsche left behind. He had the priorities of a narcissist.

"Actually," began Chilton, as he fidgeted with his folded napkin. "Actually, no, I still remain in Housing Unit -- ah, within my government-specified lodging."

It seemed like an obvious ploy, in that second breath of retrospect, but Chilton probably ought not illuminate his precise location. Not that Hannibal was incapable of deciphering the coordinates on his own, of course, but that scenario would at least save Chilton the humiliation of exposing himself in such a way. Ego was a battlefield in its own right.

Chilton was rescued from immediate extrapolation as a waiter intervened, a slight man who delicately inquired over the gentlemen's choice of drink. Chilton proudly announced their intent, smiling in his self-congratulatory way. Despite the tension embedded into his stiff limbs, despite the race of his adrenaline-fueled heartbeat, the very idea of Hannibal having complimented his wine choice tickled the former Chief of Staff. He couldn't divorce himself from his adulation of Hannibal, even as that sentiment swirled with fear and envy and suspicion.

"Will Graham is intent on moving, as you may know already," he said. Chilton's eyes were focused on his company's face as he spoke, ready to absorb any and every detail with an unblinking hunger. "I suppose Heropa is not suited to his temperament. Perhaps there is a deficiency in canine populations."

It was a deflection. Chilton was more than prepared to toss Will Graham off the bridge, if it distracted Hannibal's focus away from his own person.

Even Hannibal had to admit that the accommodation wasn't too bad here, given the lack of rent to pay. If it wasn't for the idea of room-mates and the infringement on his desire for personal space, he might not of been as hasty to find a way to leave. If he had the money and the freedom, he would always opt to be alone. But right now, he supposed he couldn't exactly lament on the situation too much.

His own space was always the first priority. More room, more freedom, the more he could entertain guests. It was so much harder to throw a proper dinner party with people conquering the kitchen for their own inferior little projects.

"Accommodation isn't always everything. Some people don't mind sharing, they can even thrive in that kind of environment," Though he struggled to imagine Chilton being the ideal person to share anything with. Especially accommodation.

But at least he wasn't going to need to look too in depth to find where Chilton lived. It couldn't be too hard regardless, he was hardly a master secret keeper. Which always seemed to work in Hannibal's favour.

"It had been mentioned when we last spoke and I wish him all the best with the move. Will never was the kind of man who enjoyed being in the more populated of areas," he liked to be isolated away from everyone, surrounded by an unusual herd of dogs. Most of which were probably lured off the streets or stolen. "Fortunately travel doesn't seem to be too complicated, makes it easier to stay in touch."

He'd just found Will again, trusting and friendly once more, he wasn't about to lose track of that. Though just what he intended to do, he hadn't decided yet. So much more potential now, it was like a free redo on everything.

"How do you find Heropa? I can't say I've been here long enough to form an opinion but I can't say I've found many problems so far," He's not willing to simply let himself get distracted onto the topic on Will, that was a more personal matter he liked to keep to himself. Edging the conversation back onto Chilton seemed like the better idea, putting him under the spot light wrangled out such interesting reactions. The best way to learn was to apply the needed pressure and watch the results.

"It is -- certainly calmer than Baltimore, on one level."

Chilton furtively glanced at the other doctor, wondering if he had dared too much honestly with so few words just now. While on the humane level, his city was certainly lacking (extraordinary as it was on a level different from Heropa's extraordinary circumstance, one that focused on bizarre minds rather than bizarre events). But that level was -- had been quite distant for Chilton himself; until had Gideon misbehaved, until Hannibal himself had had those few precious details of his persona revealed. Heropa was calmer for Frederick Chilton.

And Heropa offered more immediate power. Not just literally, either, though every imPort was allegedly endowed with some unique supernatural capability, but also in the traditional sense. Chilton was fine working with institutionalized power for the sake of his own, and he found his needs well met. Shifting slightly in his seat, the former Chief of Staff swallowed nearly audibly. He found the rescue of wine well-timed (and rare was it, that he would commend a waiter). Distractedly, he poked his tongue at the rim of his wineglass, his motion too heavy to be an artful scenting of the drink.

"There is the matter of extraordinary abilities," he said, abruptly. Chilton reasoned that he had already committed to too much, with his casual honestly. If Hannibal had anticipated Chilton's nerves getting the best of him, he was certainly correct in that assumption. Chilton leaned forward, daring only with his audacity, and managed the smallest of smirks.

"What is your ability, Hannibal?"

Unconsciously, Chilton rubbed two fingertips against his thumb, with the hand that rested on the table to anchor him closer. It was an unplanned hint of one of his own capabilities born specifically to Heropa: sedative fingertips.

He had already wondered how Hannibal would look, under that circumstance.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

what have you got to lose --

L’ASTRANCE

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Skeletal, elements. Sure phone, that's the same thing

it can work!

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sorry for the delay!