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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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You give the sense of someone who is very good at what he does, someone in whom pride has fertile ground to grow. Beyond that, I'm not sure. That is why I asked.

[It's all she can do not to ask which is her type of pride. She imagines she knows, but then, new perspective is always interesting. Not that she trusts Will - far from it - but she wants to know about him, how he thinks.]

[It does not occur to her to be worried about this.]

Someone told me I was [ arguably ] the smartest person in the room once. I don't think she meant it as a compliment.

[ He'd adjust his glasses if they were one, but instead he just cricks his neck and thinks of how best to word what he wants to say.

There is an abundance of pride within him for what he is doing, though he's not sure he'd describe it as pride so much as righteousness, a sense of justice that needs to be wrought, as it has gone unseen for far too long. ]

I used to save lives. [ He tells her pointedly. ] I'm not so sure anymore. What breed of pride would you say that is?

Skewed, at best.

[The briefest flicker of a smile. Skewed, at best. But not entirely inaccurate.]

I think it's pride that's lost outside of its time and place. Pride . . . misapplied, but not entirely.

Why don't you save lives anymore?

[Is it because of Hannibal? she wants to ask, but doesn't ask that either. On the one hand, because she thinks the answer is too obviously yes; on the other, because she doesn't care to underestimate Will that entirely, that quickly.]

[ It's because of Hannibal. Entirely so, Will would wager, but Will's bets aren't always on the right horse. He wavers at the question regardless, even if he doesn't need to grasp very extensively at a roundabout way of wording it. ]

I guess you could say I've found a new hobby now.

I'm not sure vendettas are hobbies, sir.

[It's a guess, but an educated one. After all, she's met Hannibal ever. She knows the sort of feelings he inspires. Horror, anger, but fascination, too.]

It's not revenge I'm looking for.

[ He's too twisted up for that, and it doesn't matter how many times he's pictured Hannibal's throat between his fingers, a blade directly into the stomach, twisted, all these personal and intimate ways that he could and may kill him one day. Because it is personal, and he takes it very personally, but everything's all tangled. 'Vendetta' is too simplistic a word. ]

At what point, I wonder, does it stop being justice and steps very violently into the category you're suggesting?

[Interesting. It sounds genuine, so she files it away for later, just in case it's something she has a chance to follow up on. Just in case she, someday, has a chance to have a conversation with Hannibal that is free of guile. A hilarious thought.]

[She's an idiot, of course, for wanting this. For sometimes expecting it. But at least she's an idiot who knows what she is, and a very clever idiot for all of that.]

If I felt like being very cliched, I'd say that's what you're here to find out. I think what I'll go with instead is . . . the point at which you lose control of your actions and entirely leave logic behind.

[ It is a mildly hilarious thought, one Will's entertained on his own right more than once, but a larger more conscious part of him knows better by now. Thinks it knows better. Wants to know better, though he would firmly say that he does. ]

I'd say I'm in full control of my actions.

[ He ruminates upon it, considers the idea and just how solid his foundations seem to feel these days. ]

But I think it's safe to say that, given the - fairly obvious subject matter, we both know it can't be said without some degree of improbability.

Your opinion is somewhat biased, Mr. Graham.

[Said with a fair amount of good humor. She can see why Hannibal likes him. He's clever, incisive, clearly dangerous. Does not have nearly a good enough grip on himself.]

[Even if all this just gives her a headache, at least it will be interesting.]

I suppose that's one of those things that time will tell. Or your file. Whichever comes first.

[ Oh, that's right. His file. Wherever it may be, whatever it may say, whomever might end up getting their grubby paws on it. Will feels an immediate sense of disdain, but he doesn't elaborate one way or the other. ]

You say I'm biased. Is that about Hannibal or myself?

The answer to that would be a definitive yes.

Is it really so difficult to be?

[ A beat, and then: ]

You've read his file. You know my involvement. Just what does it say about me that you know to invoke these particular biases?

[She actually hesitates at this, not because she doesn't know what she wants to say, not because she doesn't know how to word it, but because it would be, hilariously, an invasion of Hannibal's privacy to disclose the answer. In the end, she decides Will is allowed. Tactically speaking, honesty might be the best policy with him.]

The file says that Hannibal manipulated your physical illness and your self-imposed social isolation to frame you for crimes designed to cause you greatest emotional distress. To put you in a situation where you were most likely to set aside your morals and do anything within your power to punish him, in whatever way you deemed most appropriate. The file does not go into why he did these things, but I've been a predator before; I can take a guess.

I think you're biased about Hannibal because he's used you, and because he wasn't lying about wanting to be a friend to you, and because he doesn't work the way most people do and you're one of those who most recognizes that fact. You're biased about yourself because you feel justified, or think you do. And because the two of you are inextricable from each other for the moment, whether you like it or not.

He's missed you.

Of course he missed me. [ A beat. ] As you said. He wants to be friends.

[ He's silent for a while, teeth grit, fingers pressing up his glasses so he can rub at his eyes. Is that how thorough they are? He suddenly knows, down to a fact, what it is they know about him.

The sarcasm comes out unwittingly. ]

Oh, what's to be done? [ He pauses again, something different in his voice. Even he can't identify how to sound when it comes to Hannibal. ] He's entwined himself into me, he wants to know me down to a molecular level. He might even think he does.

The only question that remains there is which direction in which it heads. Upward and onward or to somewhere else, parts unknown, revelry in the primal. Is that what you're asking me?

What I'm asking you has nothing to do with directions, with objective good or objective evil. What I'm asking is whether your pride is going to get in the way of you being sensible. Whatever sensibility means to you - I can't begin to know that. All I know is the information I've been given, the information I've learned, and the information I've stolen.

You seem like a very clever man. But you don't seem like a sensible one, and that's where he gets you more than anything. I'd rather the two of you stayed away from each other entirely. Hannibal's curiosity won't allow it from his end. Will your pride allow it from yours?

[ Sensibility and cleverness certainly don't have everything to do with it and he knows it as sure as she's telling it to him. What it really boils down to - and maybe it's his pride, maybe it is vendetta - but still the same, his voice comes out a bit tight and wavering when he speaks through his teeth.

Only after a pause, and only carefully - it's hard to hear him at all when he says it, actually. ]

I'm not done with him yet.

[She sighs, long-suffering.]

That's more or less what I expected.

[ It's not the answer she was looking for. He knows. But there's a satisfaction in admitting it aloud to her - of all people here, Mal perhaps has one of the most rights to know. ]

I know I've given you a volatile mix within your hands. [ He will admit. ] I don't envy you.

Mm. Well.

[There's the sense of a secret being shared here, even if it isn't in any way a secret. Not from Will, not from anyone.]

I like a good challenge, if you want the truth.

I'd hate to bore you.

[ He really would, actually. ]

But then, I expect your inmate keeps you adequately challenged as is, never mind with me in the mix.

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