infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

[Chilton does not resist Will's movement for the photograph, and he makes no kinetic mention of it; he stands still, watching Will with unblinking eyes. His state of disbelief wasn't unpredictable -- for so, so long Chilton had felt that Will Graham was unattainable as a studied subject, and then the man was practically ruined by Hannibal's mechanisms. But perhaps Hannibal and Chilton both had underestimated Will's resilience; he had forged a new life in this dimension, from Heropa to De Chima. He had found new strays and reclaimed old ones. He had touched hope, only for the rest of Pandora's Box to tremble back into his life.

And here he was, standing with Chilton in this room that was no longer Abigail's. Asking Chilton to lead the way.]

Oh, Will. [I thought you'd never ask.] I will make sure you don't suffer that same loss.

[It was an absurd promise, something that was less up to Chilton and dictated more by the whims of fate -- but Chilton, bathed in that warm golden glow of triumph, said it. And he thought he meant it.]

[Child 8C]

We're from different worlds. I try to keep that in mind whenever I talk to someone I don't know. I can't know their social norms and customs. What's rude or polite where I'm from could be the reverse to them, or something they've never heard of, and the same goes for me. People might not consider you a monster because, in their world, you wouldn't be. Or people might not consider you a monster because they don't think in such terms, or because they view monsters as something else. [Or because they consider themselves the bigger monster, he doesn't add.]
Judging others, too, based on the world one knows without taking into account that things are different across the table, to me, says a whole lot more about the person passing judgment than the person they're passing it on.

[At that name, the brother butchered and buried and dug up, Will's face darkens. Jaw tight, leaning back in his chair somewhat, the effect only serves to turn those grey circles underneath his eyes completely black, shadows pronounced. Had he known that Abigail killed someone? Had he known that and been doing everything in his power to keep her secret, even when he thought her dead and that could be taken as protecting Hannibal, too? Oh yes, Will knew.

Life is precious, even Hannibal would say that much out loud. Will continued his work because, generally speaking, he saved lives. And that felt good. Generally. But in the face of the (to Mary) nameless dead, Will doesn't display sympathy, or regret. Both brother and sister are dead in their own horrific ways, and he can do nothing to bring them back. He can give their family no closure when Abigail Hobbs' reputation is, literally, at stake. She'd be burned for it, hailed as a murderer who not only learned from her father but enjoyed it. One thing should be clear: Will Graham values Abigail Hobbs' life far more than he values this poor man she took life from.

He stands with Abigail, always and forever, even when that standing involves bleeding to potential death while a madman playing God doesn't hesitate to tell the world he shatters it is the world's fault he's done it, can they ever forgive him?]

I believe I know who Abigail is. Who he is. I know who I am. [He is a very specific sort of killer, but she hasn't brought that up yet. Not directly. As long as it stays unsaid, Will is content to let it remain that way.] And by having that much clarity, I'll be fine.

[The goal of therapy was achieved. Just not the goal Hannibal wanted. Whoops. But Will leans forward again, picking up his mug and bringing it to his lips, looking at the alcoholic dark depths before he seems to all but blurt out:]

You see in my head when we were at the fair, too?

[Sometimes, one takes a lonely kayak with a lonely oar and quietly, gently passes through a river doing as much as possible to leave it undisturbed and go by without drawing any attention. Other times, one blares the speakers on a boat with a motor loudly protesting its misuse and shoots snake and bird and fish alike, leaving blood in a wake that is impossible to ignore. This is the latter, and Will drinks to it.]

[ just because in a world killing is alright, it doesn't make it alright. he understands what Will means, but he doesn't think it should be that simple either.

However, Kaneki IS a monster. He has accepted this. ]

Did you know if you cut off my fingers, they will regrow? Again and again, cut them one hundred times, or thousands times, they will regrow. Feed me, and they grow back. Cut them off again, feed me again, they'll grow again. Again again again again its a truly monstrous sight you know

stab my eye too ill go blind for a bit its temporary sight is back soon after do it as many times youd like just the same

put a centipede inside the ear hear it munch away munch munch chomp chomp give me flesh itll heal and while still inside itll keep going

eat and heal get hurt and eat again dont die never die never stay alive do it all again how monstrous

One thousand minus [ UNKNOWN ] [ yeah, kaneki isn't typing. He is talking, and the communicator is writing it down for him. But when he is just mumbles, the program can't decipher it ]

[ UNKNOWN ] eat [ UNKNOWN ] alright. I'm alright. With all of that, I think there is too much of a monster in me to ignore it, Will. "Different worlds" is not a good enough excuse anymore.

Edited 2015-03-25 21:41 (UTC)

[Is that false pity, or thinly veiled triumph? Oh, Will. He doesn't know how to take that, exactly, and it shows. A flicker of confusion over a grieving face trying desperately to keep together his threadbare suit, though this confusion comes void of any suspicion or bitterness. He won't ask after what that Oh, Will really means. Better that way. He might get bullshit as an answer, and it's easier for both of them if he doesn't press for that.

He promised Abigail the same, a promise without the "promise" part being spoken but a promise nonetheless. He wouldn't leave her, never, and soon after? The Porter decided to remind him that promises were so easily broken when it came to people, regardless of their intent. Chilton was the first of them to make a trip to Baltimore and find himself back here, surely he knows the risks. Surely he knows that Will is completely aware how empty those words are. Surely he knows that despite being unable to control when and who is lost, someone offering reassurance they'll stay in spite of it is still so, so, so nice to hear. Especially when it's Will, who Chilton has openly discussed using isolation as a measure of safety. Unattainable as a study subject, yes. But in other ways, not at all. Not as much as he might "happily" pretend otherwise.]

I'll remember that. [A poor joke delivered fully aware of its poor taste, the half smile on his face an attempt to prove he could discuss the matters of Abigail Hobbs just fine. He could be just fine. Look at him, fixing the sleeve bunched at his elbow and generally fitting in with the rest of the human race, he's doing just great.] You got any of that booze like you used to keep in your office around?

[Brandy? Whiskey? Cognac? Scotch? Something fine and expensive and far more cultured? It's probable that Will knows full well what was resting in Chilton's fancy decanters, but he's not the epitome of refinement, never has been. So it's booze he defaults to as he physically falls in line, ready to be led, hoping there's something stronger than water for him to drink at the end of it all, and by God will he drink. There is no need to go on a murderous spree for Will Graham's attention. Just make him a few empty promises and put a glass of something alcoholic in his hand, and that dog will be happier than a pig in slop and follow without nipping heels. Here and now, he's only got Chilton to raise his hackles for, to watch from the corner in his sad dog bed, to bark at on the occasion it's necessary someone speak up. Here and now, the only person he has to latch onto in that dogged fashion is Frederick Chilton. The only one who might recognize it for what it is, at least, who knows him regardless of how much Will dislikes being known.

Here and now, Will does just that, simultaneously latching onto a somewhat comfortable familiarity to combat the roller coaster of losing Abigail Hobbs. Again.]

[DUDE]

No, I don't know how monstrous the sight is. I can only imagine. [Does...Ken want him...to watch...this...? God, this is the best cannibalistic romance tactic THERE EVER FUCKING WAS.] You're welcome to think whatever you want of yourself, Ken, but you'll find it's not always possible to change what someone else thinks of you. Or how they feel about you. Gets even more muddled when you base that on what your body is capable of, whether or not you revel in its abilities. And sometimes, the more you shove an idea down someone's throat, the more you make it so they're less inclined to swallow.

[cannibal speech for $500, alex]

[ He asserts clarity, and it's up to her to decide on if she believes him. That's important, more important than what he's done or who he's protected. If Will isn't self-aware yet, then that proves as more of a danger than a killer. She thinks, she decides, he's no rabid dog. That much is urged on by what he suddenly asks, referring a scene that was presumably everything but controlled. Presumably.

Of course, a straight answer on this comes with a risk. She doesn't know what he saw at the fair, but she knows he saw something. Something that wasn't worth commenting on, or something that he felt he couldn't. If he had seen what Abigail saw, that surely would have been worthy of comment, even off-brand sarcasm. So naturally, she wants to know. She wants to know, but that risks him saying or asking something he can't take back. She didn't come here to offer her support, only to be forced to bury him beneath the house she just brought a gift to.

More than that, even more than that, though, she wants to know (hear) about what she saw. That, too, comes with a different risk factor, as he's already forced to re-live Abigail's death and possibly his own. Clarity is fragile, and when it becomes too dark to see anything else, serves little purpose. ]

I saw you working. I saw...how you work.

[ Fucking fascinating is how. Mary doesn't belittle that opportunity to see a mind's working process, nor had she when getting the chance to witness Sherlock's mind palace. How Will's mind works is actually poetic, and not the forced mockery that Hannibal paints kitchen floors with. But then beyond that, it wasn't just work. She can't say that. ]

I saw a man wanting to be an animal. Seemed like...all the animals in one. [ Felt it, more like. She sits up straighter, both hands now gripping the mug that's still barely touched. Her brow crinkles with an unease that would have to be natural for any person to admit to seeing such a thing (the only unease she has is for someone else), but her breaths are steady and her focus isn't pulled by anxiety. ] One and two.

[ how ghouls seduce each other: cut off their fingers and grow them back in front of the other cannibal ]

Different worlds. It helps them to see other people's stories as easier to accept. Because it never happened to them, it's just a story, like a book, like a movie, like a nightmare. Not real. Until it happens to them. Dorian sees me as a monster. It happened to him. So it's what it is. It sounds naive, though. To only really see it when it happens to you. Will, why aren't you afraid of me? You read the file. You know what I can do. You know how fucked up I am. How fucked up I can be.

[He's seeing enough right now, thanks. Getting into pure empathy is, however, not a fun conversation. So:]

You haven't given me any reason to be afraid, Ken. Just because I'm not afraid doesn't mean I'm not aware.

[Like how he's aware that, when walking on the side of a street trafficked by cars, there is some risk one might veer and take him down. Or when he goes over a bridge, it could crumble. Or how he's aware drinking might ruin his liver later on in life. But comparing Ken to inanimate objects, or the people behind them, or nature taking its toll at an unexpected moment, doesn't seem the best course of action.]

I've lived enough of my life in fear. I didn't enjoy it. I don't have a desire to repeat it when I don't have to.

[Two parts of Mary's explanation made this relieving to hear.

For one, it was the same glimpse that the others who had touched him got as well. He wasn't blindsided by the revelation, which made it easier to hold a straight face. If she had spouted of something he had not heard before, at that fair, confused and unaware it had even happened, that would have changed. Possibly, depending on what she might have seen.

For another, rather than immediately see it as Will being the killer, returning to the scene of the crime under the guise of solving it, she picked up something else. That was how Will worked, end of story. How he worked, not how he set up murders to later solve, working behind the scenes with strewn guts to later be given the glory of finding the one who'd done it, whoever Will later set up to take the fall.

Mary had never shown herself to be dim, or slow, so that she comes to this conclusion doesn't shock him. Doesn't seem out of place. But as she talks, moves, he can't help following her lips, the lines of her body standing out more than they had moments prior. He remembers what he saw, remembers being in a body that was not his own, which isn't unusual...but being in Mary's body? He hadn't ever thought of it happening, not in such a fashion.

She speaks of man being animal, animals, and for a moment, Will's eyes on her neck are so intense it might very well look like he's ready to launch himself across the table and bite. Fortunately, he seems to become aware of that soon enough, and goes back to looking at the not-fully-coffee drink in his hands.]

Randall Tier. [A name that comes out much, much easier than Hannibal Lecter. A name he can lean back in his chair saying, almost at ease.] Wanted to be a cave bear. He slaughtered cattle first, a truck driver, a couple...didn't take us long to find him and put a stop to it.

[Because he came after Will, and Will beat him to death with his bare hands. But that doesn't make it out of him, and there's nothing overly odd in his voice or body language. Just discussing facts.]

I never intended for anyone to see that, I'm sure you...know. Feels polite to offer an apology anyway.

[So there's her apology. Gosh.]

[ She isn't one to say everything she sees, anyhow, but the rest wasn't as relevant as the process. A bear isn't as relevant as a stag, because the stag isn't mentioned. Randall Tier is another faceless name to be filed away with Nick Boyle, no real classification other than 'dead' applicable. Killer or victim is irrelevant to the immediate context beyond that and connection to Abigail, to Will, to the hunt.

As he confirms the capture of Randall, she nods in eager approval of that much while reaching to stroke the dog's head again.

But then oh, such apology. Funny how she didn't ask for one, and she doesn't seem to remotely care that he's offering it. More pre-occupied with how he keeps looking at her, spied in glances between the dog, the coffee, and a window's reflection. Brows flinch as she narrows her eyes, though she turns the direction of her gaze to her coffee before anything can be read there beyond processing the story. Then she offers a smile for what was clearly a hapless instance, still unexplained even to this day. That burns, but she can let go of unsolved mysteries. There are many more out there she can solve.

Which ones are playing through his mind? He isn't Sherlock, but if there's anything that Mary took away from Will's memory, it's that his mind might be as dangerous. Sherlock hadn't suspected what she was for longer than she had even hoped to dream for, but he had to have suspected something about her. Maybe his connection to John had coaxed him into ignoring it while she wasn't a threat, but Will doesn't necessarily have that buffer. If anything, Abigail could be just the opposite considering her history. ]

Oh, I'm just glad you stopped the man, so that's what I'll keep with me. [ How did you put a stop to it, Will? ] Someone intended something that day at the fair, but it wasn't us. Nothing could help it, so there's nothing to apologize for.

[ Unless he saw something that upset him beyond a certain point. At that, her head tilts, her eyes wide in such an innocent gesture that one would have to be paranoid to instead see it as a hawk's inspection. ]

Is there?

Freddie Lounds.

[ That's it. That's the voicemail. Call him back. Set before the age plot and after Will's 21/3 post ]

Edited 2015-03-28 14:23 (UTC)

[Now, for someone who's done law enforcement all his life and is currently in the process of getting back to it, it might make sense of Will's return call to be delayed. Scrambling to find tools to add onto his device so he can track whoever's calling down and all that fun stuff. Except Will is Will, tracks well enough on his own, so there's no delay. There's only enough time for him to realize he has a message, listen to that message, and immediately call back.]

Hello?

[No accusation in his tone. It's more of an invitation—hello, he's here, talk to him, tell him all about Freddie Lounds.]

[ If he does track the message, Will will discover that it's bounced back across several private satelites, and there's a jamming beacon fracturing the original broadcast's location into several images, all within the CBD of De Chima. Attempts to hack the identity would result in a bat symbol without fail, but then that's largely with the help of a certain technopathic boy genius.

Batman's voice is rough; gravely, and low. ]

She was disruptive. Dangerous. She didn't have a great many friends. Whether you considered yourself one of them is still a mystery to me.

A friend suggested I call you. He suspects foul play. I believe you do too.

[Rough, gravely, and low is all good. Familiar.]

Freddie and I were indeed close. [He doesn't mind revealing this, though the use of friendship, within those cropping up out of Baltimore, isn't generally common. Friendship means something very different, very not like friendship as most people consider it. Still, the reply comes quickly enough that the Bat on the line can imagine the close relationship is borderline friendship.] Which friend are you talking about?

[And yet he'll hide his full hand, here and now. He's talked to Clark. He's talked to Miles. He's talked to Frederick. All with various levels of details. Which one?]

I hope I don't give you a reason to.

[ to be afraid. ]

Me too.

[It would take a lot. And if he ever gave Will reason to fear, it would be enough for him to have to make a call. Ken would have to go so far it couldn't be contained between the two of them, in good faith.

Ken doesn't need that.]

[ Close. One word that masks so much, but from watching their interactions on the network it's clear enough that it isn't friendship in the strictest sense. Camaraderie would be a closer diagnosis.

Clark had come to him with this, explained the situation; had already established that he knew and trusted him. Now it was Bruce's turn to demonstrate that. ]

Clark Kent. He's a reporter from my world, one of the few who knows how to get in contact with me. [ A pause. ] He introduced me to you as a detective, of sorts.

Oh -- in fact.

[The desperation (or, as Chilton would prefer to classify it, the camaraderie on sudden display was as surprising as it was delightful. Chilton didn't take his eyes immediately away from Will, having the urge to note down all the nearly imperceptible hints at whatever narrative was flowing through the man's mind. The grief was palpable, yes, but Chilton was more interested in Will's own reaction to that grief. The continuation of his own company. The asking to stay.]

Do you like cognac? [Rhetorical question, since it's what he was offering. Chilton stepped out and strolled over to his cabinet, on the far side of the room down the way. It wasn't an ideal placement, having a liquor cabinet in one's room, but Chilton really couldn't trust... Well, Abigail with the access otherwise. The way one altered behavior because of the behavior of interpersonal relationships had always been a fascinating angle of study.

He expected Will to follow. Two tumblers, a few shots each. It was almost civilized, this fresh-cut grieving process.]

Whoops.

What happened to warrant a whoops?

IC contact [Mask or Menace]

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1/idk GO WITH IT BB

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DONE

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voicemail;

call back!

call back!

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03.29.15

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