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[ 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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[ He'd needed his own glasses to figure out this communicator he's just beginning to figure out. Habitually, they're still on and he adjusts them as he peers down the hall.

He heads in that direction, eyes flickering briefly between Bruce and the pitbull as he goes along. Will gestures vaguely towards Bruce by the time he's close enough to be in proper earshot, without shouting. ]

Glib. I'd consider it glib to implicate the afterlife to the unsuspecting, absolutely.

[ Tony is calm, watching Will's approach; his shoulder is against Bruce's calf, keeping in constant contact. ]

I find it best to not lie to inmates. It's both insulting and confusing in an already upsetting and disorienting situation. They don't appreciate it once they realize what the truth is.

[ Will's eyes roll from Tony to the ceiling, avoiding Bruce's for the time being. He nearly chuckles, ironic. ] The truth. The truth that I'm dead, of course.

[ Skepticism and mild irritation sharpening his tone in the slightest. ]

The afterlife is a prison and a barge of indeterminate location. [ Let's pretend he's buying it. ] Can I ask exactly what put me in a - a-a criminalized situation?

It's traveling interdimensionally. [ Location: sort of attained ] As for why you're here, I can't tell you.

I am a warden, here by choice. Working for what we call a 'deal' - inasmuch as I care about deals. [ He doesn't, really. He gave his away. ] But your history and the details of your life will be reserved for your warden, who will receive a file with the details needed.

Are you hungry or thirsty? I have food and drink in my office.

[ Because what is sleeping in your cabin, Bruce. ]

[ It's traveling interdimensionally. Of course there's a file on him. He wonders what might be in it regarding him, what colors they've got on their palette.

The heels of his hands very slowly and carefully push up his glasses enough so that he might drive them into his eyes, rubbing methodically at them before he can conjure an answer that's not overwhelmed and therefore, consequentially, catty. ]

Call me unable to conjure an appetite for the time being. A drink, then.

Edited 2014-06-07 02:00 (UTC)

[ He nods once, leading him back. The infirmary was a good sized affair, and off to the side was a hallway, and to the other a multi-use office. It was to the office that he went, and out of the small mini-fridge that he got a bottle of water. ]

[ Next to it was a dog bed and set of bowls. Tony went there and sat. There was a lazy boy chair, along with some others, and a desk. Bruce was the only medically trained warden, so everything here was his. ]

Have a seat.

[ As he's lead through, he immediately finds his eyes wandering. A lone pair of forgotten scissors, a scalpel or two loose, anything will do in a pinch. It's reflexive, up and until he realizes what he's doing. He finds himself watching Tony instead, after that.

He lingers awkwardly at the doorway before he makes his way into the room, even holds out a hand to accept the bottle of water. ] I think I'll stand. [ And not feel like he's about to embark on some sort of macabre patient interview. ] You don't have anything stronger, do you?

[ It's a joke. ]

[ Bruce watches with the the weight of a man who has no fear for himself -- none at all, the absence of fear for his own being is curiously and completely absent -- but for others... a muted concern. ]

[ Thankfully, this is a prison infirmary. There are no odds and ends. Everything is locked up tight. Once, the infirmary was used for mayhem and murder on Bruce's watch. ]

[ Never. Again. ]

I don't drink.

[ Said with the weight of someone who is a teetotaler by choice, and has a deep disdain for drinkers. ]

But there's a pub on deck, if a warden will allow you inside.

[ An inappropriate joke, apparently. It is a very heavy response that Bruce gives, and it's at once - instinctively - noted, cataloged and filed away.

One of Will's hands jangles nervously in his pocket and he can't help but meander, taking stock of the room as if to glean more information about his captors. ]

So they don't lock the doors but they do have bars. [ His eyebrows raise. ] Releasing the bird but clipping its wings. Maintaining a loose grasp on an illusory idea of freedom.

[ He never seems to entirely have his back to Bruce no matter where he wanders, either a predator unable by nature to present its weakest point or an equally learned prey. He hasn't decided what he is yet. Controlled but not quite in control. ]

Tell me again why a warden would bring an inmate into - [ His hand removes from his pocket, to wave dismissively. He can't keep most of the bite out of his voice. But he is regarding Bruce again. ] By every other nature, that kind of camaraderie would be discouraged between prisoner and guard. [ By every other nature, he'd still be in his cell. ] Is there an instruction manual for this sort of place or is it really more of an unspoken rule kind of domain? Because, Dr. Banner, thus far I'm not feeling an overabundance of clarity here.

This is not your typical prison, but it is one all the same. The barge is a living, sentient thing -- but she doesn't communicate with anyone but the admiral. You'd have to talk to someone in Engineering like Barbara or Megamind, or even Iris, to learn more about her.

I've lead her infirmary for almost two years now and am the only medically trained doctor who is also a warden. [ The exceptions being Jack and Hannibal, obviously-- neither of whom Bruce likes. Go figure. ]

We ware not what you should expect. A warden is-- a coach, a guide, a partner. Unfortunately when an inmate does something wrong, they also have to be jailer. We have only three guidelines for warden and inmate conduct: Don't kill inmates, with the exception of self defense. Don't torture inmates. And don't sleep with your inmate; any not paired to you who are willing and consenting, however, you may engage in relationships as you please. Rape or coercion would be a quick way to become an inmate yourself.

[ Or die at the hands of a lot of people. Either or. ]

As for manuals -- no. But I do have several of Chromie's brochures. She tries, bless her heart, but... [ He fished one of the brightly color trifolds out of his desk and then slid it across the wooden surface (that was remarkably devoid of knick knacks, photos, or anything else beyond a metronome.) ]

[ Sentient ships. Christ. He's supposed to believe this stuff.

There's woefully little in here to be going off, and in the end, it's what finally makes him sit. Nearer to Bruce's desk, so much that he can take this proffered brochure and start to leaf through it.

That and the fact that all of this is starting to settle in as very real and very - happening, at the moment. He's being told rules of the road and that's far more grounding than being told where he is or what he's doing here, evidenced by what he is apparently doing here. He doesn't feel dead. He does, however, feel trapped, caught as if in a snare meant for an animal.

Glean instructions. Learn therein how to remove snare, and benefit. Will gestures to Bruce with the folded paper, eyebrows raised as he sifts the brochure back onto the desk, eyes landing briefly on that metronome. ] It comes with actual pamphlets. [ That's kind of funny too. It's a funny level of detail in this place.

One of Will's hands just tiredly mops itself over his face, and he sinks himself further into the chair. ]

This is all starting to sound a little more like prison summer camp than actual prison, yeah. [ Atypical, as Bruce has said. ] Beyond the not murdering, not torturing, not raping, how exactly am I made to proceed? Presumably the supposed treatment here would be - [ he gestures vaguely between them with his hand, distractedly ] therapeutic in nature.

[ Bruce adjusts his glasses, and Tony comes up next to his chair -- he puts one hand on the dog's broad, square head, rubbing an ear as much to soothe himself as the dog. ]

The rest will be between you and your warden, once you have one assigned. Each relationship is unique, and no one has authority to interrupt or interfere outside of the Admiral himself... unless one of the rules is broken.

[ And even then, some things are different per warden pairing. Iris and Wade... ]

[ Bruce and Ivy. ]

Some specialized care is available. Alana Bloom is one of our practicing therapists, for example. [ There's the slightest tick at the corner of his eyes; therapy is not a thing he really believes in, but it can help certain people. ]

[ Well, there's something to focus him. His other questions are temporarily put on hold, everything from how he gets in a talk with the Admiral (he presumably doesn't) to what the dog's name is.

Will leans forward in his seat and his brow furrows, his jaw hangs slightly agape, a compromise on an appearance that he's otherwise trying - emphasis on trying - to keep collected. ]

Alana Bloom? Alana's here?

Yes.

You're from her world?

[ Because this is important to know - Alana is from Hannibal's world, and Bruce's loathing for Hannibal runs deep. Especially after the last time they spoke. ]

[ He didn't appreciate getting forked. ]

[ He pauses a beat before he answers that, first to adjust to the colloquialism and then to consider just what 'world' within Alana's he's found himself nestled into. ]

She's a friend.

It's good to have friends here.

[ He pauses, and then asks the million dollar question: ]

Do you know Hannibal, then?

[ With the intimacy of a knife to his throat.

The name could very nearly make him bristle, hackles raised and teeth on edge, but he manages to keep the lid on - carefully sealed, with all the violent inaction he can muster.

His molars grit and he doesn't answer for a solid two or three seconds, but when he speaks, it's light (if strained): ]

Would you believe he's my therapist?

It might explain a few things.

[ Like why you're more fucked up that Bruce is, for one thing. Why you're an inmate. ]

[ Tony buts his head against Bruce's hand, to try and distract and soothe. The dog helps. ]

Alana has an office here, but she's not in at the moment.

[ Who doesn't want to talk about Hannibal? This person, who is trying to keep his stress levels at baseline 'angry'. ]

[ i know who wants to talk about hannibal

There's a connotation that comes with the information that Bruce has unwillingly (coyly, perhaps) presented, mutually and separately innocuous but altogether a blade that he's not quite being made to wield.

He has every warning sign: Maybe most telling is Tony, but also the abrupt subject change, the transparent observation (Bruce, as it is, does not know very much about him and Will can begin to gather what sourer things Hannibal might be able to explain away). He can feel himself settling very quickly into a seamless paranoia, to be avoided, and yet he finds himself clicking back subjects as though aimlessly. ]

And Dr. Lecter doesn't?

[ It's an easy observation. ]

Please don't insult those of us who have dedicated our lives and work to the betterment of man by calling Hannibal Lecter a doctor. He is a butcher, and not allowed in my infirmary under any circumstances.

[ Bruce's eyes are flat and dark, hostility bleeding at the tightness at the corners. ]

He fed people to my patients. I treat him in Zero if he warrants treating at all.

- Hannibal Lecter is an inmate?

[ It's a stark confirmation of a brand new world, one in which - though he might be actively working towards it, a place where the name might be so synonymous with a heinousness with which he's particularly familiar - he doesn't necessarily know how to conduct himself.

The duel between a mongoose and a snake ends viciously even when the snake tires; the mongoose shows no mercy for the creature in part because of who or what else might be hunting its prey, but moreover because it doesn't want to become breakfast first. Will doesn't have any plans for defeat - Hannibal's already given him a foul taste of that, and the expressive need to keep the flavor off his tongue has made him very patient - but it does all raise a certain need to discover just what other predators might be awaiting their own turn at the cobra.

Shock, by default, isn't exactly the first expression crossing Will's face. ]

Indulgence isn't a suit he fastens on all too often, and if he wears it, it's proudly. He would have considered that a gift unappreciated. [ It's a strange sort of acknowledgement, a loose interpretation of what Bruce is telling him.

And then, just as plainly, as if to explain himself: ] I didn't say the process wasn't a complicated one, therapeutically speaking.

He's a murderer. Of course he's an inmate.

[ This is not the time to tell Will that there was another Hannibal, one who has come and gone, from another world. Another Hannibal, who did equally terrible things but became a graduate. He doesn't know if it'd give Will hope, or dash it completely. ]

[ He's afraid of seeing one on Will's face instead of the other. ]

I'm not much for therapists. Hannibal's brand of them, even less so.

Oh, he's a lot more than that.

[ Tightly, a bit heated, but he's not about to start elaborating. Once upon a time, he'd talk about Hannibal until he was blue in the face - now, he's much more coy with how he handles things, as though he has those eyes on him wherever he goes. It's impossible, naturally, he knows that, but there was a certain 'better safe than sorry' air to the situation.

That clearly applies here no longer. But if Hannibal's here, he needs a plan before he can start openly revealing how much he knows. ]

He does know his sciences, soft or no. [ More of an admittance than a compliment. ] It's less therapy and more - as if you've been strung up against a wheel. You turn until you're dizzy, and hope none of the knife blades puncture something important with each throw.

No, he isn't.

[ Bruce's ire, like some sleeping dragon, opens one red eye and fixes will in his mind. ]

Hannibal is not special. Hannibal is not talented or regal or any of the things that he--or the people he has duped--seem to believe. He requires only one thing to operate: a certain level of ignorance, and he helps foster it by knowing how to work a crowd like any conman. He simply has a fancier set up to get his marks and work his con.

[ He's just like Brian Banner in that manner; he knew how to work the town, keeping his wife and son living in terror while everyone else averted their eyes to the horror, refusing to see what was there the whole time: A monster among the sheep. ]

He's as common a criminal as any other. Elevating him beyond his station both feeds his ego and his urges. I suggest you disabuse yourself of the notion that he is anything other than a base killer with a perverse appetite.

Edited 2014-07-02 17:01 (UTC)

[ He's not wrong.

But he's also fighting a losing fight. Hannibal has transcended the status of mere 'person' in his mind. Though he is still human and very capable of injury, fallibility, error, it doesn't mean he participates in it all that much. There's a certain luck that comes with Hannibal's breed of killer, and a supremely careful sense of self that cannot - and will not - allow him to be caught. Animal instinct.

Will looks at Hannibal and he no longer sees the man who was once his friend, rather as though he's looking at a great and powerful stag traipsing through the forest, about to set his foot in a trap. The moment of truth, whether he sees it or not. The moment of truth, whether it actually snares him or not.

With a drum of his fingers on the arm of his chair, Will can't help but regard Bruce a bit darkly, almost a territorial kind of sense to him. ]

With all due respect to your profile, Dr. Banner - [ Will pauses for effect, slides his glasses down his nose and tucks them into a pocket. He smiles downward, flatly, before he regards Bruce square in the eyes for one of the first times since he's entered this office. ] You don't know me. At all.

And you really don't know what it is that Hannibal Lecter is capable of.

01 | 🕐 | audio

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