mirrortouch | 01 | 🕐

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01 | 🕐 | audio

[ It's not something that really ever becomes routine, it doesn't matter how often he wakes up someplace strange and uncharted. The voice on the line sounds about as scattered as he feels. ]

My name is Will Graham, it's- [ He's pulling back his sleeve to look for a watch that's not there. ] I don't have the time. I don't- I don't have the time.

[ Hang on, don't get too lost. ]

It's not clear to me exactly where I am, but- [ a dry laugh ] you probably already knew that. This isn't even my phone. But you probably knew that too.

[ He's missing details. He's missing plenty. His voice trails off for a short while before he can get his bearings enough to speak again, and even then it's almost unconsciously. ] I don't know. I don't know.

[ It's as if the fact that he has no idea sparks him back into the present. His voice grows more composed, if somewhat cracked. ] So if you're hearing this, if anyone is hearing this - [ is anyone hearing this? ] - any singular indication will be key.

[ Another beat. ]

I feel as though I've strayed a long, long way from home.

[ The air goes dead, and then so does the line. ]

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[It's deceptively simple to pick Will out from all the rest: the Barge is small, and the Piemaker's been around long enough to recognize most of the new crew at sight. But he lets Will meander his way over to him first, letting him take the time to explore his surroundings. He remembers what it was like for him the first time, stepping out under the stars. He'd fought vertigo and acid reflux the entire way.

Digby sits calmly on a deck chair of his own, woefully ignoring the no-dogs-on-furniture rule the Piemaker only haphazardly enforces.]

You haven't lost your mind. There isn't a film crew.

There's only me, and Digby, and pie. I promise.

It's. Nice to meet you.

[ There certainly isn't a film crew. The stars surge by overhead and he feels almost like he might be ill at the new sensation, not a particular kind of seasick per se but instead the same, overwhelming feeling that Ned probably thinks of. At first, he was willing for the whole charade - now and still, he's waiting for the dream to abruptly end itself.

"It's nice to meet you," Ned tells him, and Will can feel a bit of skepticism start to leech in - the look he turns Ned's way fits the thought process. Is it really, though?

Will's gaze scatters, landing on Digby instead of the sky. ] No - [ He agrees slowly at first, and then: ] No, I am most certainly awake right now.

[ It's unfortunate. A short pause, and his hands go into his jacket pockets; overprotective of himself, probably. ] Hey, Digby.

[The Piemaker liked to bring Digby up when he met new people. Scared or sick inmates who wouldn't talk to strangers sometimes talked to dogs. He'd lent out the golden retriever a number of times as a comfort animal, sharing him with the displaced and lonely of the Barge. Most of the time he didn't worry over the dog: occasionally, he did.

This didn't seem like one of the times he should worry.

At his name, Digby's called over to Will's side, trotting over and sniffing him with the polite air of an old - really, really old - dog.

The Piemaker remains seated, biting his lip and letting his dog make the acquaintances first. Digby had much better people skills than him; he'd be embarrassed about it if he didn't find it so convenient.]

[ Digby seems friendly enough anyway, well-trained. He kind of dutifully sniffs at him - probably, actually, can still smell Will's dogs on his pants; they're certainly underfoot enough - and Will lets him smell his hand before he pets him.

Slow, at first, but then he grasps the sides of his head and ruffles a little playfully. ]

I've got a retriever at home. His name is Winston. He is - just about as charming. [ Once he opens up, anyway.

Will glances up to Ned again, giving Digby's head one last pet. ] I think - [ away from Ned, back up to the sky ] I may be having a crisis of perspective.

[Digby allows the petting with comforting ease: he spends most of his days in a restaurant watching people come and go, and thus is extremely used to strangers coming up to pet him. His mouth opens up in a happy pant, as he sits close to Will to take full benefit of the ear-ruffling]

The Piemaker glances up at the name, surprised and a little amused by the coincidence]

I knew - know - a retriever named Winston too.

[But he doesn't yet suspect it's the same dog, glancing at his own and then towards Will again]

You'd be surprised how common that can be.

What can I do to offer perspective?

[ He's got his own bit of surprise, though it settles into puzzlement rather than amusement. ] That's - quite the coincidence.

[ But he hasn't seen Alana yet, and doesn't know any better.

It's not disheartening, but it does bring up a certain territorial feeling, like, "It was my name first." ]

Everyone here [ he speaks carefully, evenly, as though choosing his words with a precision ] has spoken of horrors and steeling oneself for the inevitable, the bizarre and potentially deadly. And yet nobody has told me, singularly, what they've been through. What to expect.

I suppose hashing over traumatic details to a stranger might seem a bit much.

Is Winston a common name for dogs?

[He honestly doesn't know. Winston, in some universes, could be a very popular dog's name. He resolves to introduce the two sometime, if Alana doesn't beat him to it]

...No, I mean. I don't mind. Vagueness can be its own trauma to new people.

I can tell you what I've been through. But it would require a temporary suspension of disbelief in regards to my specific brand of ability.

More or less.

Do you know very many dogs named 'Winston'?

[ Because he doesn't either. ]

We're standing outside in space right now. [ He speaks carefully, sounding out his words as if even he needs to make proper grasp of them. ] We're standing atop a spaceship and we're in space, surging through the stars. I'm a prisoner on a prison space boat, a macabre and forced sort of rehab, just -

[ He gives a minute shake of his head, looking over at Ned. ]

Try me.

No. Not many. But this wouldn't be the first odd coincidence I've seen here.

[Will does make a good point. Even though everyone on the ship knows what he can do by now, it's still an effort for the Piemaker to state baldly what he can do.

State baldly, he does.]

I can touch dead things and bring them back to life.

I...touch dead things. People. Animals. Fruit. They come back to life. I touch them again, they go back to being dead.

There are other rules, but that's the..gist of it.

And once...someone on the Barge here, he...found out about it. And he kidnapped me, and Digby, and kept us in my room so that he could...kill people on the ship. And bring me...pieces of them.

To...eat.

There were other things. Ports and floods.

But that. That's the worst I faced down. Being an unwilling tool to someone who wanted the freshest...food he could find.

[ It doesn't take a difficult leap to figure out just who exactly it was who might have done this to Ned - who's been nothing but kind to him thus far, mind, Will has no qualms with him as of yet. But maybe that's just because he's always lurking there, Hannibal, at the corners of his mind like shadowed fingers leeching into the rest of what he has left.

Will doesn't answer for a few long moments, if not just to process the new information he's been - for lack of a better word - fed. He knows about the ports and floods. He doesn't know what exactly they entail, but nobody else seems to either.

What Ned's been through, that could certainly take the cake (the pie?) insofar as horrific things one could have happen to them. ]

He does like to play. [ Will speaks darkly, more to himself than anything, as if he's temporarily forgotten Ned is sitting just beside him. With a slow regard, he turns his head to peer at the other man.

He imagines the horror upon that expression, the grotesque feeling of touching the flesh of those he's known, living flesh, sinewy and chewy on the way down. All Will's done is throw up an ear. ]

A piemaker is an awfully innocuous profession for someone who can do what you do, Ned. [ Humility. Most people would think themselves unto Christ Himself, and here he sits beside Will. ] Reliving traumatic experiences, in my experience, does come with - some degree of catharsis.

[It's a difficult thing to say aloud. The Piemaker's fist digs gently but tightly into Digby's fur for support, his face taking on a neutral expression so as not to go opening little trauma boxes once again. He'd thought he'd packed away that episode of his life relatively tightly. Opening it up for a stranger, even to help, was painful.

But Will's response surprises him. His expression breaks into mild confusion, as he turns to stare back. Will doesn't appear repulsed, only grim and quiet. He's thrown for a bit of a loop.]

It also comes with some degree of trauma.

I don't usually want people to know what I can do. Piemaking's as good an undercover job as any. You get to reuse fruit.

And there's that.

[ He doesn't mean to come across blase about the whole experience. It's frightfully traumatic, sure, what Ned has been through, and Will can feel that visceral sort of itch that comes with all things related to Hannibal. A distinctive feeling that twists itself nastily in his gut and settles there to fester and lie in wait until the opportune moment.

Reciprocating with more stories of the man would be easy right about now. But Ned's already been exposed to the full brunt of what Hannibal's capable of, and reliving his own past traumas would be, in his opinion, redundant. ]

It's not something I'd particularly want to advertise either. Nary a person who might approach with some sort of request or another. [ He glances over to Ned again, brushing a knuckle against his nose. ] Pie comes much easier in its handling than, say, humans do.

Generally speaking.

[The Piemaker does not for an instant suspect that Will and Hannibal are acquainted. It would be a terrific leap of logic and while he's done some detective work in the past, it's mainly been of the touching-murder-victims-back-to-life sort.

And likely it wouldn't help his psyche to hear more horror stories. He only mentions his own now in order to prepare Will for something which Will needs no preparation. The Piemaker tries to warn the new arrivals as best he's able]

Pie does handle better than people.

It's more than that. It's.

I'm the only...person in the world who can do these things. That I'm aware.

I'm the only person here on the Barge, too. Even where there's magic run amok, people still want you bringing back dead things. All the time.

[ A feat that's well-appreciated, even if, as aforementioned, with a degree of repetition for Will. Unfortunately, he's not really the show and tell sort of type. Maybe, with enough conversational pull, he would let up some of his more memorable experiences with Hannibal, certainly - there's few subjects he talks about more - but as for right now, he's keeping it on a surface level.

Ned, on the other hand, is a partially open book, with pages free to read - there may be some mark-outs and pages torn free to save his own privacy, but Will hasn't recognized too many of them as of yet. There's something endearing, about the open and honest. It's a nice change from his day job.

He can't even imagine the difficulty of having to deal with something like Ned has. It's not just the experience with Hannibal, it's the entire lot of it. ]

People want what they want. [ He admits, his lips pursing slightly. He can't say that he wouldn't have asked the same questions of Ned, had he been in a position for it to matter. But Abigail was here. The point was incredibly moot. ] And letting go is not something that has yet been innately birthed within the human condition.

[ For a moment, he has to say, he thinks of Beverly and his stomach does that twist again, bitter and angry and all the same thoughtful. It wouldn't matter. She wouldn't come back the same. Nobody's the same person after so much trauma, as he's sure Ned isn't the same person. ]

Entertain for a moment [ as he's sure Ned has done multiple times in his life, being given the power that he has ] being a completely average, baseline human. Would you trade it in? Would you change anything?

[He hadn't meant to turn the discussion towards himself: Will was new, and needed to know certain things about the Barge and his fellow passengers. He didn't need to know the Piemaker's childhood trauma or pent-up fears. The trouble was that it was all so readable on his expressive face. His wide eyebrows draw up tight together in anticipation of more questions.

It's not that he minds answering questions. It's more the fact that he knows he should be using this time to get Will more acclimated to his surroundings.

Though, Will seems to be managing better than most. It's hard for the Piemaker to pin down why Will seems to be an inmate]

No. We, um. We cling.

[He knew the feeling well]

...It's a layered question. And one that's probably impossible to answer the same time twice in a row.

Being able to do what I do has brought every tragedy and every good person into my life. Without it, I would be a completely different person. I can't say whether or not I'd like the kind of person I'd be or even if I'd be.

Too many things would have to change to make it all fit.

[ It's an old avoidance tactic that Will takes and embraces fully, combating difficult situations and potentially intimate lines of conversation with diversionary questions, with subject changes and what he likes to think of as subterfuge. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Here and now, while it's working, he'll take it and run with it. He'd never been one to talk about his feelings so much, and particularly not with this barge where everything seems so very overwhelming and new. He's talking to someone who can quite literally reanimate the dead. He finds that far more interesting than any discussion about his new arrival could possibly bring.

He doesn't like flaunting his arrival. And his regular questioning of the whys and hows are not only generally met with a dead end, but he finds that he's even boring even himself with his own skepticism. ]

If traumas change and mold a person, I suppose [ and it feels ridiculous to even say aloud, it sounds about as much so in his mouth ] supernatural powers would lend an entirely different spin to the matter. [ It's a difficult question he's asked, and he knows it.

So he relieves Ned of it for the time being, nodding towards him and raising his eyebrows. ]

But you do have pies going for you.

[ It could sound mocking when it slips between his teeth, but it's honestly meant to be encouraging, a silver lining to what else Ned has had to deal with.

Though, about that pie... ]

I do have pie.

[He confirms, not taking offense. It's not easy to offend the Piemaker...conventionally, at least. If Will had wanted cake instead of pie, the Piemaker could have very easily become offended.

But here he picks up the wooden box housing the pie, setting it on his lap and opening it. There are paper plates and forks inside; products of his own kitchen in his cabin.]

Pie seems to make the recent arrival better. In, um. Limited experience.

[Will might not seem like the typical inmate, but the Piemaker's first pairing was with Thomas, who was equally quiet and thoughtful and not immediately someone one would seek out for inclusion on a space prison. Will, in his own way, reminds the Piemaker of him.

He begins to cut the pie]

It's not all terrible people here. Most of us are decent, I think.

It's just the two or three bad apples.

It's more of a comfort than a - brightly colored pamphlet dryly detailing the whats and ifs of the journey on which I'm supposedly about to partake. I'll give you that much.

[ He watches Ned's hands rather than his face, equally more of a comfort than keeping regular eye contact with him. Ned seems sincere, and therefore it's nothing personal. ]

Only two or three? [ There's a half a laugh somewhere among that doubt. ] Most might be decent. [ Maybe. He'll go out on a limb here. ] Of course, plenty are also criminals.

Pie's more personal. And you can't eat a brightly colored pamphlet.

[The Piemaker doesn't mind the lack of eye contact - prolonged exposure to people tends to make him a little uneasy. He concentrates on cutting three slices: one for Will, one for himself, and one for Digby. He gives Will his piece first, then sets Digby's plate on the floor for the golden retriever]

Being a criminal doesn't mean a lack of decency. Or. Vice versa.

I tend to think of 'decency' here in the context of 'not hurting anyone.'

You could try. It wouldn't taste very good.

[ He accepts the pie without hesitance, though it takes him a moment to actually dig in as he watches Ned set a slice on the floor for Digby. That wrings a half a smile out of him, something reminiscent of home. Half of his dinner always ends up going to his dogs, scraps of meat and whatnot. Slices of pie, maybe not, but it's along the same vein. ]

Depending on if that's in the past or present tense, that may be a smaller category than you've reckoned. Then again, from what I've been told, the Admiral does, ah - frown upon the maiming and killing of the other passengers.

[ He slices off a bite of the pie, and raises it almost in a toast. ]

Go figure.

[He smiles a little at that, taking the small joke as a sign that Will's starting to grow accustomed to the Barge. He always found it a hard adjustment, and he was the one who chose to be here.

Beside him, Digby dug into the pie with predictable abandon, used to the scraps offered.]

I can't say for sure whether he frowns on anything. I've never seen his face.

But the wardens don't like it. Me included. I don't like...maiming or killing.

Is it getting any easier?

It doesn't seem like anyone has. Seen him.

[ It's a source of frustration to him, in some sense, that there are these wardens here, people who have voluntarily chosen to be part in this little hellish experiment. He's not sure what sort of trade it is that Ned's made in this venture, nor will he ask, but he's not sure what's worth enough to someone to submit to - whatever this is going to add up to being.

The maiming and killing - he doesn't comment on.

He chews thoughtfully at the pie, looking down at his plate as he tries to think of the right answer to Ned's question. Yes, 'right', because 'honest' will end up with him dragging up the same pessimism he's been holding at bay since he's arrived. Pie's easier. ]

It is only my first day.

[ First few hours, really. It means 'no', in a sense, without him strictly saying it. ]

Does it really ever get easier? Becoming accustomed to the situation, in my opinion, isn't exactly the same as 'easy'.

[The Piemaker would answer that it is worth it, once all emotions were out of the way. His benefits came in two-fold: he got his deal, and he got to help others escape their prison. He'd helped to free two inmates of his own, but whether that made him a part of the system or someone doing his best to work within the confines of what they were given, he couldn't say for sure. It was a question that kept him up at night.

But he wouldn't take back his deal for anything. His hand reached down to pet Digby once more.]

Sorry. It was a, um. A dumb question.

It..I wouldn't say easier. The burden's the same.

It just gets shared over a greater amount of shoulders, over time.

[ His eyes roam the skies once more, sketching across the stars. ]

I think I may be ill-equipped.

[ Not for the situation, he thinks. It's the last of what Ned says that really strikes him as problematic. He couldn't, back home. It was an impossibility to share the entirety of his tribulations with people who either wouldn't understand or who would blow the entire operation that had been so carefully created. ]

I've spent so long with my burdens set upon my own two that the entire [ how does he word this ] "sharing" process is one of near unfamiliarity to me.

[ Pie is easier to pay attention to. He slices off some more for himself, chews thoughtfully and purses his lips just the same. ]

I'd say I wear that intricately woven horse hair sweater with pride, but "pride" doesn't seem like the right word for it.

[The Piemaker once believed the same of himself. He believed that there could be no friendship, no one to rely on for as long as he lived. He worried constantly about what would happen should he become attached to someone only to find that they had passed away, that he had the power to change it, and the consequences that would arise from his choices.

Here on the Barge, he'd found solutions to his problems. He'd also found friends.

Not wishing to predispose Will of false hope that the situation would be the same for him, the Piemaker gave a nod, bowing to Will's much more superior, complete knowledge of himself and his own quirks]

It's not pride. It's. A kinder emotion than that.

Resolution, maybe.

I'd like to say things here will be different but I honestly can't tell the future. And I don't know you. Not well. Barely at all.

But I'd like to hope for kinder things. It's not all floods and breaches and bringing dead body parts back to life.

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