etrayalogs | [Closed] You cannot catch a predator, if you're the prey

Entry tags:

[Closed] You cannot catch a predator, if you're the prey

WHO: Will Graham, Brandon Carver
WHEN: Around the time of this post
WHERE: Dr. Lecter's house of horrors
WHAT: A discussion of hosts
NOTES\WARNINGS: There will be detailed discussion of Hannibal canon. This may include discussions of cannibalism, unintentional cannibalism, murder, mental instability, doctor abusing patient, abuse of the mentally unstable, lots of very grey morality.

Closer to the outskirts of Etraya resides the large, classical New England-esque home of Dr. Lecter. For those lucky enough to step inside, they'll notice his meticulous attention to detail and design. It holds an herb wall and has various floral arrangements. Everything looks custom-made or is a reproduction of famous artwork. It's unclear how Hannibal got his hands on so many beautiful things, but it has to be because he's such a fantastic psychiatrist. His kitchen is cool and has resemblance of a morgue or laboratory, while his dining room contrasts that coolness with a cobalt color scheme. His living room relies on more earthy colors, greens and browns, with animal imagery laced into nearly every detail (the chairs have horses' hooves carved into them for feet).

With Hannibal gone, there is a stillness to the kitchen, it is no longer the heart of the house. That dubious honor now lays more with his library/office.

When Carver arrives he will be greeted by a deep barking.

Nashua, back. [ Is all Will needs to say for the German Shepherd-esq dog to step away from the door and sit. When the door is opened, Carver will see the extra large, sable GSD sitting just behind Will to his left. The dog doesn't look particularly interested in making friends, but remains calm and watchful. ]

You made it. [ Will's tone is as flat as ever, but there is a thread to it that suggests Will expected it was a 50/50 chance that Carver would actually come out all this way. Let alone come to this house. ] Come in.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Instinct says to stay on his feet, to keep moving. To maintain, always, a certain distance between them. Carver has a feeling he's stronger than Will in a one on one fight, but nobody who survived breathing Korengal's dust is alive by mistake and that alone makes him dangerous. But there are other factors, too. A certain respect that's begged, or demanded.

You don't talk back to an officer. You don't make them repeat their orders without cost.

The raven flits off, flapping away to peck at one of the bookshelves before landing by the bowl and tapping its beak against the glass. Awrk! it goes.

Carver takes the glass, cool to the touch even with his gloves on. And then he takes the chair that gives him the best vantage point of the room. ]

Okay, [ he agrees softly. He takes a drink and his eyebrows rise at the taste. Top shelf. ]

[ Hannibal loves to indulge in the best. Even for liquors that the doctor himself did not enjoy. Now, after all this time, Will understands the various reasons why Hannibal is this way. He understands that it is not just about showing off wealth. More, complications within complications.

Once Carver chooses his seat, Will sprawls in the other.

Make no mistake, Will looks as if he'd rather be getting slowly flayed alive, than having this discussion. He has no desire to open up the doors to is memory palace, reliving each moment of the past five years with the vivid recollection of his eidetic memory. If Hannibal were still here, Will wouldn't even be entertaining this conversation, but he has to accept that Hannibal is gone and that this place ... this place requires interpersonal cooperation.

Even with this resolve in mind, Will takes a sip of his scotch and completely avoids the topic that brought Carver here in the first place. ]

The mythology surrounding ravens, and the birds themselves, are incredibly complex. Their nature, of eating carrion, is attributed to the lore of many cultures that claim ravens are harbingers of death, and misfortune. It is also the foundation of their role as messengers between the living and the dead, and their role within the Bible is wide and varied.

They are survivors, scavengers. Feared by many, but in equal measure venerated by many. They are interpreted through the lens of the bias carried by the person looking upon them, and rarely has anything to do with the birds themselves.

[ Will pauses for a moment and tilts his head, first one way and then the other. His eyes are laser focused on Carver's face. Many people, when subjected to the full focus of Will's attention, tend to find themselves wishing he'd just gone on ignoring them. ]

Of the many mythos, I believe the belief of the Tlingit culture bests fits you. [ Here his voice slips into the tone of a teacher, a good teacher, one who layers their lectures in a way that resembles a Shakespearian monologue, rather than dry subject matters. It can be hypnotic, if one allows themselves to become lulled in such a way. ]

"When the Great Spirit created all things, he kept them separate and stored them in cedar boxes. The Great Spirit gifted these boxes to the animals who existed before humans. When the animals opened the boxes all the things that comprise the world came into being. The boxes held such things as mountains, fire, water, wind, and seeds for all the plants. One such box, which was given to Seagull, contained all the light of the world. Seagull coveted his box and refused to open it, clutching it under his wing. All the people asked Raven to persuade Seagull to open it and release the light. Despite begging, demanding, flattering, and trying to trick him into opening the box, Seagull still refused. Finally, Raven became angry and frustrated, and stuck a thorn in Seagull's foot. Raven pushed the thorn in deeper until the pain caused Seagull to drop the box. Then out of the box came the sun, moon, and stars that brought light to the world and allowed the first day to begin."

[ He holds Carver's gaze for a moment longer, then looks down at his scotch, speaking before he takes a sip. ] Wonderous beauty can come out of pain.

[ It’s not what he came here to talk about, but Will’s settled in and this has an air of ritual to it. Some understanding shared between them, some truth, and this is the first part of trust and all that follows from it. Carver lowers the glass and watches Will with silent intensity. He doesn’t fidget or interrupt, doesn’t break eye contact, barely moves. He listens, recognizing that something is being imparted to him, and this is a rare moment for men like them.

Scavengers, Will says. Messengers. A thorn struck through.

Carver tilts his head. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he clicks his teeth and lifts his glass in lazy salute. ]

I’m not that kind of Indian. [ And not that he’d know the stories even if he were. His family hadn’t cared to pass on traditional stories, too concerned with surviving the present day to think back on what had shaped the world before. ] But I’ll
Play. So, which am I? The messenger, or the torturer?

The Raven in the story was both. [ Will points out. ] He did a brutal thing, in order to bring the world to life.

[ Taking another sip off his scotch Will glances towards Carver's feathered companion. ]

Such is the complicated duality of the raven. They are as comfortable with death as they are with life. Intimately touched by both. [ And would one not say the same of Carver? ]

[ Carver watches the raven as it dips its beak into the water and drinks, one dainty foot holding onto the edge of the bowl. And he watches Will in turn. ]

The commander used to say we own what we do. Otherwise there’s nothing honorable in it.

[ He meets Will’s gaze, unblinking. ]

The good and the evil.

[ Will gives a slight bow of his chin, respect towards the commander's words. ]

To my point earlier. Your companion fits you.

[ Carver inclines his head ever so slightly, accepting it. There weren’t many officers worth following when he was in the Army—mostly just Pope, and those Pope chose to raise up. But he thinks he would have followed this man, thinks Will probably would’ve sent him to his death but perhaps at least for a good reason. That it wouldn’t have been a pointless fight.

One can hope, anyway. ]

Why’d you keep it? The egg.

[ We'll see if Carver still feels that way, when Will is finished. ]

It never occurred to me to do otherwise. [ The way he answers, and glances over towards the shepherd dog is a good indicator that he's telling the simple truth. ]

Back in my reality, I had seven dogs. All strays I found dumped on the back roads that lead to where I lived. They were the only creatures in my life that never betrayed me. [ His expression becomes unfocused, as he slips towards a far away memory. ]

Even then, Hannibal corrupted them. All but one of them. Winston.

[ Carver smooths his thumb over the rim of his glass, considering those words. The intonation, the little pauses, the way Will doesn’t look at him directly but focuses instead on the dog. All those little details bleeding together, starting to form pictures.

Betrayed is a very specific word, after all. ]

Corrupted how?

[ For a moment, Will didn't move, didn't even blink and there was a tension in the air that could suggest that he was considering revoking his offer to explain. Somewhere in the house an antique clock chimed the hour, the sound echoing through the otherwise empty abode. Remind Will that Hannibal was gone. ]

It started when Jack Crawford walked into my classroom, and asked to 'borrow my imagination'...

[ With those words, so began untracked hours of events so twisted, so dark that they went from the realm of reality, to fantasy and then back to reality. Because no mind could craft a fiction that even came close to the timeline Will shared.

He would occasionally pause, stand up and refresh their drinks, but for obvious reasons, he wasn't going to offer food. The pauses were as much to refresh the drinks, as they were to give Will a breather from reliving memories he would never escape. At one point when perhaps Carver may have been considering calling bullshit on the things Will was sharing, the dog stood up and walked from one side of the room to the other. As he did so, he passed behind Will and the shadow thrown up on the wall was that of a large, majestic stag.

The story of Mason Verger was shared in due course. How Hannibal had drugged the psychopath and manipulated Verger into slicing off his own face, feeding the flesh to Will's dogs. All except Winston, who had escaped outside to wait for Will on the porch.

There were the stories of the efforts to entrap Hannibal. The dinners Will had attended, with the knowledge of what was on the menu. This lead to the story of being caught by Mason Verger, and that delightful dinner.

HostS.

The two gun shots, and the scar across his lower abdomen were explained. When he spoke of the latter, he motioned towards the kitchen with his glass, explaining the exact spot where he'd sat, holding his intestines in his hands. The exact spot where Abigail had laid, blood pulsing from her sliced throat.

Will even spoke of his time with Molly and Walter. The normality, stability and happiness they brought to is life. Then he shared how Jack Crawford, purposefully, and Molly, unwittingly, had dragged him back into Hannibal's orbit. The hunt for the Red Dragon, how Will's mental instability had once again been sacrificed in the name of hunting a monster. All of which lead to the lamb's wrath unleashed.

Hannibal, Dolaryhyde, Jack, Alana, Margot, Bedelia, Chilton...

If it wasn't dark before they started down this path, it was definitely dark by the time Will spoke of killing Dolarhyde, and taking Hannibal over the edge of the cliff. His glass empty, except for mostly melted ice cubes, Will swirled them about in the heavy cut crystal and turned his head in the direction of the kitchen. ]

Apparently, Hannibal hosted one of his infamous dinner parties not long before I arrived. I expect one of the individuals wanting to burn this place to the ground was the guest of honor.

[ The story comes out in sections. Carver drinks his vodka and listens without interrupting, watching Will close. Considering the details and the whole, the shape of the story taking place. All those ugly, brutal details. Games within games, bodies put on the line. Will started out as a teacher and became something new at the end, something a little harder to define. The cannibalism and the designs, the murders played like art instead of merely consequence. Will names and explains scars, does the same for places inside the house. The memories hang heavy, so close to the surface Carver can almost see them playing out before him.

It goes on for a long time. He marks names and deaths, other brutalities. And then a cliff, and a long drop.

Carver smooths his thumb over the rim of his now empty glass. The only thing that isn't mentioned - that seems conspicuously absent - is Korengal. And then Craver wonders if he simply read between the lines an operator fed him, and heard what he wanted to hear. They aren't from the same place after all. ]

He stands abruptly, still holding the glass. ]

I knew a few cannibals, back home. [ His tone is bland. ] One hung my brother up on a meat hook, like in that movie. You know, that Texas one?

[ The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He watched it when he was a kid and it gave him nightmares. Not that it matters. The real thing was much worse. ]

Infection killed him about a week later. Why're you still here, if the mob's coming?

I do not watch horror movies. [ Will said in a mild tone as he levered himself to his feet. ] I live with enough of them in my head from the job.

[ While he would have liked to be horrified on Carver's behalf for what happened to his brother, Will could only think of what had happened to Beverly Katz. His ever helpful mind supplied a vivid recollection of what lay beneath their feet, and he looked down. But he made a mental note to be sure the door to Hannibal's basement was securely locked. In Will's world, people on meat hooks wouldn't have warranted his inclusion in the investigative teams. He was held in reserve for the over the top monsters. ]

I am sorry for what happened to your brother, [ he offers as he sets down his glass and leans into the refrigerator to grab a bottled water.

Now it was Will's turn to pace the room as he cracked the top on the bottle. ]

They're not coming. [ He said, stopping at the sculpture of a bellowing stag. ] They're angry -rightfully so- and just learned that they have no route to express that anger with an appropriate reckoning. [ Will turned back to Carver with a rueful half grin. ] I can sympathize.

But most people are not cold blooded killers. Give them an opportunity to rail at the injustice, rather than bottle it up. It's part of the grieving process. [ Leaning back against the wall, Will spread his hands in a 'what are you gonna do' motion. ]

If they do decide to go ahead with their threats, then they will have the murder of an uninvolved ~~he won't call himself 'innocent'~~ party on their hands. [ He speaks so casually that it may be apparent that the emotional numbness that had sent Will over the cliff in the first place, is still his emotional state of mind. Live or die; Will approached either option from a matter of fact position.

Taking a long drag from the bottle of water, he watched Carver and moved to change the subject. He'd talked long enough. ]

What is this infection you brought up?

[ This time, Carver’s the one who goes still. Weight evenly spread, hands loose at his sides. The raven and the bird are otherwise occupied. Now, the two of them are in motion. Sharing truths, war stories, death stories. What fun. And Will speaks with such flat certainty that it’s easy to get sucked into his orbit, to understand how others would be, too.

These things happen, the commander used to say. And so they do.

Carver shrugs, watching Will close. He remembers the shadow that the dog cast. Things are strange here. A little more and less real than before. ]

Sepsis, [ he replies, in the same bland tone as before. ] It’s not a good way to die. Tell me the truth now: you were never in Korengal, were you?

[ Will takes a moment to remember Chilton and Georgia Madchen, but he decides against going into any additional details about what happened to them. No matter how a loved one dies, it is never a good way for those left behind.

Instead, he focuses on the question, and without hesitation gives a negative shake of his head. ]

No. I was never considered mentally stable enough for the military, or the FBI ... or the NOPD, if we're being honest.

My 'walk through the valley' came in the form of hunting the unspeakable monsters, and later the number of times Hannibal tried to kill me.

[ It's a neat trick, Carver realizes, watching Will oh so close. It's a neat fucking trick, that. Allowing the target to fill in the blanks, assume connections that aren't really there. Because people are drawn to the familiar. They look for answers they understand.

This man was never in the Valley. Not the way that Carver meant. He turns that truth over in his mind, wondering if it constitutes a betrayal or merely an act of stupidity on his part. The commander would know, but the commander is gone now. ]

You let me draw my own conclusions, [ Carver observes softly. ] Well done.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Closed] You cannot catch a predator, if you're the prey

no subject

tag brought to you by Wikipedia

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject