[Semi-Open] - The Hotel California

[camebefore]

WHO: Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham and YOU (The first one is closed to him and Will, but the following ones are all for anyone to hit that wants to!)
WHERE: The streets of Heropa
WHEN: 03 Jun - Day of his arrival
WHAT: Hannibal Lecter has come to Heropa or has been here before given what others have said.
WARNINGS: Hannibal is a warning in and of himself even when he's playing at being normal.
NOTES: Can do prose or actionspam



Left alone in an alien world that too closely resembled his own, Hannibal Lecter had taken a seat on the nearest bench. His attention moved from person to person, not caring much about gender.

Only briefly did his eyes close, fingers pressed against the shut eyelids as he massaged the bridge of his nose. Too many things were bright and full of flash. His Shakespeare wrote itself in his memory palace.

It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

It certainly had its sound and fury now. The music that came from cars or shops was too loud. The lights were too bright. Even the smells were too caustic and burnt his nose. Was everyone in this place obsessed with the worst colognes and perfumes? His nose wrinkled in distaste before his expression smoothed out.

Then... then there was the clothing. Hannibal wasn't sure what to make of most of it. For a young man from 1951, the fashions of today were scandalous. His era was more the June and Ward Cleaver look than what he saw before him on the street. The first thought that went through his mind was if they got cold or not. It seemed they would with so little fabric.

The newspaper he had found wasn't much help, but it gave Hannibal an excuse for movement as he turned the page and tried to focus on the words. Superpowers. Others had mentioned those to him, and he had found them in his memory palace quick enough. The average person would notice a new lightswitch in their home, and so it was with him. It was the Aura of Calming that he was trying to play with for now, flipping the mental switch to the 'on' position and seeing what it did.

The 'Nightmare' one was for later. Or the right person.

Comments

[infomodder]

One day, far from the last day Will remembered back home, he'd be thought of as something much different than a man who'd lost his mind and gotten into one of someone much worse. One day, he might even be considered something like, oh, Will Graham, the keenest hound ever to run in Crawford's pack, was a legend at the Academy. A hound just like the ones he collected, sniffing out murderers instead of treats or missing socks. Fortunately for Will, that keen nose of his didn't transfer over physically. Colognes and perfumes were not an issue for him, and not just because he wore a questionable aftershave, the kind with a ship on the bottle that had, quite possibly, sat in said bottle for too long. He fished, lived with seven dogs, sweat through his shirts most nights; how could he live like that if he had a nose that could pick up on particular perfumes as much as it could pick up on disease?

Turning into a drunk down in Florida. That was possible, even if his face remained unharmed.

He hadn't look very impressive when he first met an older Hannibal Lecter. He hardly looked impressive, was glad for it. He'd managed a bit more than usual when he set out. The shirt was one color, dark green, sleeves still rolled up to his elbows. Pants were one color, too, not jeans or moderately too large, but black and fitting. Shaggy hair had been as tamed as it could be, and he'd taken it upon himself to shave before he set out. Dressing up the way Will Graham considered dressing up; he wasn't the sort to throw on a suit for anything other than class.

Getting to know Heropa's streets had been easy when those streets involved something along his interests. A store with a fish on the sign? Damn right he'd made note of it. The image of this young Hannibal Lecter had been burned into his mind, and while Will Graham generally wore shirts that were a little warm for the weather? Hannibal's attire made it easy to spot him as out of place, even with his face partially obscured by a newspaper (a point in his favor).

Instead of coming around in front of him or making himself obvious by walking across the road and waving, he came around from behind the bench, sat as far away as he could on the other end to give as much personal space as allowed, and looked at the paper as opposed to Hannibal himself. The paper, not the additional finger. It was noted but not a focal point and nothing in his face gave away he'd even seen it. That would be rude.

"Newspaper's here aren't as informative as the ones I know, Doctor Lecter. Crossword puzzle's aren't half bad, but you might find the rest of the contents. Disappointing."

That said it all, he thought. Knowing his name. Having arrived just shy of the fifteen minute mark. A calming aura? Might be a little helpful.

[camebefore]

When Will spoke to him, Hannibal didn't look up from what he was supposedly reading. It took the space of a breath drawn in for him to leave the room in his memory palace that he had been and be back in the physical word. He had left the calming aura active, curious on what it could or would do in practice instead of written out in cold script on the pages about himself that he had been shown.

Information about his visitor filtered in to Hannibal's consciousness. The sharp tang of a cheap cologne, the sort a child might buy or one who wanted the same sort a poor father did. The mildly medicinal taste of shaving cream recently used settled on his tongue to be swallowed away. Shampoo followed, nothing expensive or fine. The sort one might grab off the shelf because they had to use something. A second inhale brought a faint sting of detergent with a dust. Not often used clothing then.

Will dressed up for him. How delightful. He must have considered this other with his name important to do so.

A dog's scent came with it, weak with the shower and clothing but at least a brush against him. Water and a faint reek of fish settled below all that, enough that even a scrub wouldn't get rid of it right away, at least not to his nose. Letting that breath go, he turned his eyes from the paper and over to Graham himself. At being called his name so easily, Hannibal felt he had to match that and not appear caught off-guard.

"Mr Graham. How was the fishing last?" he asked politely. A glance down at his hands confirmed what Hannibal thought he might find. The skin was hardened in areas where one might wrap string around to work on a specialized bait. He'd heard of such in France but never seen them. Surgeons who did a good deal of stitch-work in his time had sometimes gotten the same marks on their fingers. "Still making your own lures? I should like to see one sometime. It wasn't very popular where I've lived, but I've heard some are quite complex."

He folded the paper over his lap with care, silently disagreeing with Will's thoughts on the crossword puzzle. He could have done it in a few minutes. In ink. His hands folded over each other, the extra fingered one on the bottom.

[infomodder]

There were quite a few things Will did not know about his Hannibal Lecter (how odd to think of it like that), that keen sense of smell being one of them. As far as he could figure out, he'd either used too much before that particular meeting or, possibly, Hannibal was so used to expensive, fine perfumes and colognes that something as simple and base as Will's stuck out like a sore thumb. He'd always been aware of how different they were, how odd of a pair they made. Hannibal in his expensive clothing, perfectly matching, hair always in place, everything about him leaking wealth and taste and culture. Will in what he clearly wore for comfort more than anything else, matching not a priority, his hair a mess that was rarely tamed, everything about him leaking the opposite of wealth and taste and culture.

It had been one reason he'd refused to stay for a dinner party he wasn't prepared for. He knew that Hannibal held enough respect that Will could sit at a table with women dripping in diamonds and men wearing watches twice as costly as his car and no one would say anything about him in his dumpy jacket, unshaven, so out of place. They'd look at him. They'd side-eye him. They might even think better of Hannibal for befriending and bringing along something like a mutt of a man. He hadn't meant to rob him of that. He'd been extremely uncomfortable on every level, including one that he took as something like flattery. Hannibal didn't have any reservations being seen next to him, even with friends who had no idea why they knew each other.

Here and now, knowing this Hannibal was already a doctor and so observant he could pick out parts of Will Graham that he reserved for the privacy of sun and water and a cool breeze on his face? That same sort of feeling was settling in again. Hannibal had been someone who rivaled Will's skills of seeing without looking very long, natural, almost on par with breathing. So young and he was already there. They had their similarities, but Will would never be as impressive as Hannibal. Not that he wanted it, wished he could retire and leave the rest of the world behind, but seeing himself in someone so much more accomplished than him and still welcoming, desiring his company?

He had never been sure whether to take it as insult or flattery, same as Hannibal now showing off (or maybe being himself?) that there was far more to him than a young man who had been intelligent enough to excel in the medical field much quicker than most anyone else could boast.

"Always made my own lures." It was easier to stretch his fingers out, look at his hands, roll them over and show that he wasn't lying. He didn't even see them anymore. Having those little nicks and his hardened skin pointed out was the only reminder he had of them anymore, unless he messed up and cut himself. "Always fished, too. Started young. Given a bait shop when I got here...no reason not to take advantage of free bait. Make custom lures now for my regulars. Never quite the same as making them for me."

His voice was quiet but not a mutter, measured carefully but not so slowly he seemed to have difficulty wording things. Meaning and agenda. The distraction of his hands was easy to read as a welcome one, considering he'd been unaware of where he was to look at first and kept his eyes on focused just past Hannibal's face as opposed to looking him in the eye.

"Wouldn't mind showing you." Finally turning, opening a little, he interlaced his hands over his stomach and leaned back somewhat. Tension still radiated off him, even trying to make himself comfortable. One shoulder stayed a little higher than the other, another thing he didn't notice anymore unless it was giving him pain. "Probably need to see other things before that. How long ago did you arrive?"

[camebefore]

"Those of us who do a good deal of stitch work in the medical field have the same," Hannibal said quietly, offering one hand towards Will. The marks that laid around Will's fingers repeated on Hannibal's own although his were starting to blend back into smooth skin thanks to various lotions and care. Now that he wasn't in charge of dealing with the corpses that required the thicker black thread to sew back together, he could rid himself of them.

"I would like to." The surprise of it, even to Hannibal himself, was that he would. A distraction from this would be welcome as he set about rebuilding his life with the things he wanted. "I haven't been fishing since I was thirteen."

The last had been when he had killed the butcher, taken his head away for the altar.

Hannibal noted the reluctance to meet his own eyes, the way Will looked through or past him instead of at. No comment was made on the oddity, information filed away to be turned over later and examined. Will was a mystery. Why would another version of himself work with such a man? What circumstance brought the two of them together? Considering this, he almost missed how neatly Will could have sidetracked him and shifted the power to Will's side by taking control of the situation or leading. That simply wouldn't do.

"A bit ago," Hannibal offered, not quite sure of the timeline himself. It mattered less as escape seemed even more unlikely. This Graham person still being wound up was inconvenient. The questions he wanted answers to would have to be delayed until he could coax Will into a better (and more truthful) state of mind. That didn't mean he was about to let Will lead him or have the illusion of it. Under other circumstances, he may have been willing to at least let another person think they were the alpha, it was the knowledge that this Will Graham had known another... gotten dressed up in rarely worn clothes and made himself more presentable... brought that need to dominate out. But it would have to be done delicately. Gradually. Especially if this 'other' Hannibal had been like himself.

He found it a shame in those moments that he didn't know yet what had made that lingering scent of medication. A corticosteroid? An antiviral? Both? There was a sourness afterwards that Hannibal would have put off to an anti-inflammatory of some sort, but it could be due to some new medicine he wasn't familiar with.

"Where should you like to start the tour?" Which was polite Hannibal for 'We will begin now'. If he gave Will's body something to do with the calmness he was trying to put off, it might gain him more ground.

[infomodder]

Hannibal Lecter, young and different he may have been, had literally just offered Will his hand without any reservations. His physical hand, of course, but it hit him in a very different way. The last person Will had to rely on, to trust, to call on for anything he needed had been his version of Hannibal Lecter, the one he'd started off on such a wrong foot with. He'd been rude and abrasive, had fought him tooth and nail, had been immature, had been the model of an uncooperative patient. A patient who knew the game as well as a psychiatrist must have been a challenge, but he knew psychiatrists saw other psychiatrists for their own issues, so they must have been mature enough to realize both parties were experienced and maneuver accordingly. Will realized Hannibal's experience and instead of working with him (at first), had thrown Will's experience in his face. Called him out on every technique he used, turned around questions to demand Hannibal's answers before Will gave his own. It was not an easy process, but Hannibal had been patient in the face of Will Graham's bark and bite. He'd done what he never imagined anyone could do, and he knew no one could ever manage it again.

How far that had gone wasn't something he knew. Here, this young Hannibal was offering his physical hand, reminding Will of how long his Hannibal had extended his metaphorical one while Will had snapped at it and insulted him, held it out until he finally reached out and took it. He'd already seen Chilton not-so-subtly provoking Hannibal, had resolved to say nothing about to Chilton himself unless asked, and eventually came to the conclusion that there was no reason for him to do the same to this Hannibal that he'd done to the other. They weren't working together, this Hannibal wasn't a psychiatrist (yet?), he wasn't chained to Will as much as he was chained to him, he didn't deserve to inherit baggage he never brought with him, and he certainly didn't need to deal with a grown man trying to recreate what he'd had with his own Hannibal Lecter.

What road they might pave (if any, Will had no idea if a younger Hannibal Lecter would find this fishing, dumpy guy of any interest) wouldn't be the same as before. Couldn't, all the variables that made it what it had been effectively wiped away. He didn't stop to think that his Hannibal's interest may have stemmed from exactly what they were and that, by keeping in mind to be as unlike he had been as possible, he might be the most boring person on the planet to this Hannibal Lecter.

All that ran through his mind just from Hannibal offering his hand, which Will took after a moment and squinted at to see what he was talking about. Jesus. Jesus Christ, he was eighteen and he'd already done enough surgical work for his hands to show it. He was torn between being extremely impressed and utterly disbelieving, but it didn't show. Just a guy looking at a hand, certainly not one with a mind working overtime at something so minor.

"I could take you out one weekend if you're really that interested," he muttered, looking back at his own hands to try and find focus again. Focus on the moment as opposed to the past he could never reclaim, and one he certainly couldn't repeat. The assertion of Hannibal's dominance between them would be noticed later, but Will was rather distracted to pick up on it immediately. He'd think about it later, figure it out, and file it away if they ever met or spoke again. "And...we can start wherever you want, Doctor Lecter. I know more about businesses and families who run them than. Overall world history. You told Doctor Chilton you were assigned a sous chef position, right? Did they say where? Could start there, knock that out first and end up back at housing."

Will knew Chilton, that was obvious, but the way he said his name gave away nothing about how he felt about him. Just another name, nothing to show they were friends or enemies or anywhere in between. Interchangeable with you told someone for all his tone gave away.

Antiviral pills, antibiotics, sedatives, steroids,then anti-seizure medications. That was what had been running through his system for over a month now, some of them tapered off as he got better. All of them were, most likely, much different than what he would have been given in 1951.

[brokenteam]

Mike Peterson was walking along the street in search of a job. He was, as usual, dressed in a shirt, trench coat, and trousers combo that would help cover up his cybernetic enhancements. The metal sole of his cyberntic leg still peeked out from the right leg of his pants though. That and the quiet whirr and clomp of its weight as he traveled along the street.

He had found a day job and now he was looking for a second job to do at night. It wasn't as if he slept much these days. Doing double shifts and watching over the city would make for good distractions.

His mind was the farthest away from calm most of the time. He's haunted by nightmares of the things he had been forced to see and do, by the people he had been forced to kill. That's why he stopped when the torrent of anxiety and guilt suddenly faded away into nothing and he felt calm for the first time in ages.

It didn't make sense. He looked around the street from where he stood, trying to see if there was a source for this new found calm. If he could, the calm itself would have caused more anxiety.

[camebefore]

The sound broke through Hannibal's thoughts and drew him from the halls of his memory palace. It took a second time for him to pinpoint what it was. The strange mechanical sound came from off to his side. The noise didn't have the sputter or rev of an engine. The closest he could come to classifying it was 'clockwork'.

Instead of lifting his head to look up and around him, Hannibal instead looked up from the edge of his newspaper to the shop window off to his side. Reflections moved in it, none of them standing out. More importantly, no one shown looked to be dangerous. Being attacked by a clockwork cuckoo bird would have truly been the topper to this odd day. Only then did Hannibal fold his paper and take a good look around him to find the source.

Among the other people rushing to and fro, Hannibal didn't particularly stand out except for that area of peace that he was the center of. A young man dressed in dark clothing with a subdued older style wasn't all that worthy of attention in this modern setting. If Mike were willing to wade in, to follow that sensation as it got stronger, Hannibal wouldn't be difficult for him to find. Or watch if he so chose.

[brokenteam]

Mike was willing. He was curious. The quiet whirr and clomp of his cybernetic leg resumed as he started walking again. He didn't spot Hannibal easily but he did have sharpened senses. As he walked slowly, he adjusted, vaguely following the sensation of calm until he found the point where it grew stronger.

Until he was stopped a few feet away from where Hannibal sat. He was pretty certain of his answer. His hardware seemed to match his assessment but he wasn't upset enough to demand to know why. He was sensible enough to ask,

"Are you doing this?"