etrayalogs | MISSION 003

MISSION 003

WHO: Everyone and their plushies!
WHEN: June 7th to 25th
WHERE: Everywhere
WHAT: The third Mission
NOTES\WARNINGS: Violence against cute inanimate objects, nightmares, psychological horror, potential death and injury. Please add additional warnings as needed within threads.

⏵ care bear delivery⏴

Last week all characters received one of two possible messages informing them about this month’s mission; some people received a message informing them about the plushie delivery and letting them know they are to protect it.

While others were informed that the plushies must be destroyed starting on June 14th, as any ones remaining after June 20th will cause untold destruction upon the city and its inhabitants. Those who received the second message will find themselves unable to share it with other people.

As promised, on the morning of June 7th, all characters receive a delivery from the companion bots: one stuffed animal plushie handed directly to them. The shape of the plushie differs between characters, but their size is somewhat consistent; they’re all bigger than a fist and small enough to be carried around.

The plushies are magical in nature. Those who fall asleep with their plushies in the same room will find that they will not experience any nightmares and awaken feeling refreshed, even if they only sleep a few hours, or sleep in twenty-minute intervals (looking at you, Bats) rather than go for a full night's sleep. If they lock the plushies away, they will still experience some relief, but it won't nearly as much. Those experiencing intense feelings of guilt, sorrow, homesickness, fear, or pain will find that they still feel those emotions, but with significantly less intensity than they may usually have. Stressors are less stressful, and overall, it seems like the plushies and their magical properties are trying to help. It's as if something else is helping to carry the weight of that suffering.

However, characters will also become more attached and protective of their plushies the longer they have them.

⏵ teddy tailor⏴

After receiving their plushies, citizens of Etraya will find a new, colorful addition to the first level of the hospital, where one might expect to see a gift store, decorated with various tiny outfits. Those who wander inside will find that the place is not a store, but a tailor’s workshop. The companion bots manning it will happily guide people through the steps to make an outfit for their plushie. All kinds of fabrics and patterns can be found throughout the workshop, and a few sewing machines are set up for their use.

The companion bots will not physically help, but perhaps other citizens coming in can assist. After all, all those new plushie friends deserve a special outfit.

⏵ tea party⏴

Before the end of the week, citizens will receive an invitation to a Tea Party taking place at Ramsey Farms. Attendance is not mandatory, but the last several days have been nice, haven't they? Surely everyone is feeling like having some tea and scones.

The farm is set up with various tables and tea sets. All tables have exactly four seats and are meant to be occupied by two citizens and their respective plushies. Once seated, citizens may feel compelled to share how their plushie has been helping them these past few days, perhaps they might even get specific about their fears and traumas.

⏵ seek & destroy⏴

As the first week wraps up, citizens receive one more invitation, this one to participate in a game of Hide & Seek with their plushies. Those who received the message to protect their plushies will be told to hide, while those tasked with destroying the plushies will be the seekers. The game will take place over the morning of June 16th; by then, people may feel fairly protective of their plushies.

No information is provided regarding prizes or winning parameters and Aurora will not answer questions pertaining to the game. But hey, the tea party went so well; surely, this will be fun too.

Once a plushie is destroyed, all of those negative feelings that had been suppressed will return to characters. For those who only had their plushie for a week, they'll feel those emotions more intensely, but it won't be as terrible to lose it. The longer they have had the plushie, the more emotions it absorbs, and the more backlash they'll receive when it's destroyed. Characters with intense night terrors may immediately fall asleep once the plushie is destroyed, throwing them into one of the worst night terrors they have experienced.

Characters cannot destroy their own plushies. Those who receive the message to destroy them are welcome to ask other people to destroy it for them, but if they attempt to explain their reasoning, they'll find themselves losing their train of thought or otherwise unable to explain Aurora's mission.

As stated in Aurora's second mission, any plushies that have not been destroyed by the 20th will become a problem all of its own. The exception to this is if Wade Wilson dresses a plushie in the outfit he had received for it. This outfit will both lower the amount of emotions the plushie absorbs, and slow down its transformation.

⏵ cadaver consolations ⏴
And they do transform. After thirteen days of absorbing negative emotions and taking on nightmares for others, the plushies become something so much more than just plushies. Instead of being soft, huggable items meant to assist in lowering stressors, they take on aspects of those stressors. Perhaps your worst nightmare involves watching your loved ones burn to death - your plushie is no longer a cute little teddy bear but is instead the shape of what had once been your mother, burned and singed almost beyond recognizable if it wasn't for her voice calling out to you, telling you that you did this to her as she chases you down. Perhaps you've been feeling guilty for how things went down in the Labyrinth, and the plushie takes on the shape of a friend who had fallen to save you, whispering into your ear about how it is your fault, you did this to them.

From the 20th through the 25th, these plushies remain corporeal. While they may not look soft and fluffy, it's possible to find threads hanging off their bodies. Yanking on these threads will cause them to fall apart, thus destroying the nightmarish creature intent on following its owner to their death. After the twenty-fifth, they will no longer be corporeal and cannot be destroyed through traditional methods. Instead, player characters will need to pull aspects of their fear out of the mangled creature. Perhaps the creature is carrying a replica of a treasured necklace that needs to be yanked off it, or its chest has been torn open, its heart hanging loose for those around it to grab hold of. The character responsible for the plushie will need to devour their fears, which will cause the creature to unravel piece by piece.

How this looks is wholly up to you, as is how far your character's nightmarish creature gets. Whether it's devour in a literal sense, or if it's overcoming their fear by destroying it or overcoming it - the extent of how messy this gets is up to each player, as is how messy their plushie gets.

⏵ NOTES ⏴
The soothing nature of the plushies is magical. They are magically charmed to absorb negative energies and contain them. Characters who can sense magic of this nature are free to notice this.

Those warded from being affected by others' magic may also find that their plushies are not effective for them. This can be played to players' preference; maybe the plushies can work around the wards, but maybe they cannot.

When a character’s plushie is destroyed, the character will feel the full hit of all the emotions it had been holding for them, if a character's plushie survives past June 20th it will transform into a monster, if it survives past the 25th it becomes much harder (and traumatizing) to destroy. They will need to be destroyed, as the plushies will not disappear on their own regardless of how long they're around.

Any questions can be directed to the mod queries thread in the plotting post

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ They can't keep going like this.

He comes to this realization as he kneels in front of a slick of blood across the scuffed leaf litter, hugging the remnants of his jacket and what they cradle to his stomach. He tucks his chin to his chest as he breathes out shakily, squeezing his gritty, sleepless eyes shut.

The thing that isn't a sparrow whines through the fabric its swaddled in. He cups his hand over its twitching little body, feels it strain against its confinement, a confusion of limbs and mouths squirming against his palm. ]

It's okay. [ He tells it, gently. ] We're okay. I'm going to figure it out.

[ A few minutes later, one Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist, receives a short text message. ]

Hello, Dr. Lecter.

Are you available to talk?

Krouse

[Krouse is lucky that Hannibal is at home, otherwise the message may not have been seen for a few hours. experiencing the disruption in the comfort of his own home came with many benefits. he's almost grateful for it. he's checking for any potentially useful updates on the network when Krouse's message comes through.

he debates with himself on responding, has an inkling about where this may lead. he doesn't like texting -- he offers no pleasantries, no concerns. the less on the network, the better.]

I am available at 6:00pm. May I ask what this is about?

[the less the better, yes, but. it's not under his control what Krouse may or may not decide to elaborate on.]

[ It's an anticipated question. Krouse shouldn't falter at giving an answer when he's already made up his mind. It still takes him nearly five minutes to respond, an almost unacceptable amount of time. ]

I can do 6:00 pm.

I have a theory about the latest mission I want to test. I was hoping I could ask you for input.

I'd prefer to discuss it in person, if that works for you.

[ He doesn't know where Hannibal fell on the assignments, but if it comes down to it, he doesn't think there's anything Hannibal could do to stop him from leaving. That's one of the reasons he's taking the risk. ]

[the minutes tick by and Hannibal is this close to putting his earpiece away when it pings once more.]

Of course, my house is north from Bangsan Market. I'll see you then.

[the unsaid be on time is there, looming somehow.

6pm rolls around and Hannibal has his living room a tad rearranged, with the green chairs in front of the fireplace and a fire crackling against the stone. the smell of dessert -- warm, dark chocolate -- wafts through his halls.

a small set of chocolate truffles are arranged on a plate set on a small table between the chairs in the living room. two cups of lavender tea on their respective saucers follow. the truffles themselves are garnished with frozen dried raspberry shavings while the inside is a creamy texture of raspberry-chocolate ganache. never will he have a guest and not serve them.

it is one minute to 6. he hopes that Krouse is on time, else the tea will get cold.]

Thank you.

[ There's no further unnecessary communication after that.

At a minute to six, Krouse is on Hannibal's doorstep. He's been there for eleven jittery exposed minutes, his back to the door and the hood of his brand new black hoodie pulled up, for all the good it does to make him less conspicuous.

At precisely six, the clock in his HUD display ticking over, he knocks on Hannibal's door.

The young man Hannibal will find waiting there looks worse off than he did in the labyrinth. His face is sharpened to hollow angles, the dark circles under his eyes pronounced. On the right, a semi-circular bruise has bled into the discoloration under one of them, emphasizing the burst blood vessels in the white above. He's wearing his backpack, which might be predictable, and a rough sling fashioned out of a wide black scarf tied around his shoulders that holds strips of camouflage fabric, which may be less so. He straightens up when the door opens, shoulders snapping into a formal line as he tries to level his expression into something less obviously nervous. ]

Hello, Dr. Lecter. [ He says, politeness at odds with the tightness of his voice. ] Thank you for fitting me in on such short notice.

[ He smells like blood and open wounds. Most of it is his. Some of it is mammalian, but not human. From the sling nestled against his chest comes a wholly different odour, a sickly-sweet haze of feverish flesh not readily identifiable as anything but the clotted gore at the bottom of a butcher's drain. ]

[while Hannibal had been expecting a conversation with Krouse, he hadn't been expecting him to be arriving so unkempt. he welcomes him into the foyer, jaw clenched as the familiar smell of rot and singes his nostrils. there's something else, too -- mixtures of cloying iron and decay. wet. it's heavy and pools into the air around Krouse like a sillage, though far less appealing. he wonders what he's welcoming into his home, but isn't dismayed by it.

he can tell that the young man had been waiting, sees the nerves and fatigue. he doesn't look well. Hannibal keeps to his suits, even while inside, though his suit jacket is hung up in a closet since he began baking.]

No problem at all.

[as he leads him to the living room, he wonders if it would have been better to have them meet in his old apartment. but that would have been less private and more noisy, given the circumstances. it would be difficult not to be interrupted there with the seekers forcing their way around Etraya. Hannibal has taken a quieter approach. he pats one of the chairs for Krouse to sit in, taking the opposite seat once the boy has sat himself.

he is, of course, welcome to help himself to the chocolates and tea that are presented.]

I'm getting the feeling that this isn't only about a theory.

[between Krouse's professional tone and poorly masked discomfort, he's pointing out the obvious to open the discussion.]

[ Stepping into Hannibal's home is like stepping into another universe all over again. It's warmly elegant, a place that feels like it reflects the genuine tastes of its occupant instead of the formulaic dictates of an external style, and it's all the more quietly impressive for that.

Of all the homes like this he's been inside, this is one of the ones where he feels most like an outsider, and it's one of the few he's actually been invited into. When he sets his backpack down by the chair before he sits in it, he's acutely conscious of how it stands out, just like the rest of him.

He'll cope. Starting with sitting in the chair he's been offered, his elbows tucked in and spine held away from the back, careful of the upholstery. ]

Yes.

[ He looks at the tea in front of him for a few seconds, holding an internal debate, and leans forward to pick it up. His fingers are scabbed and scraped, ruffles of dead skin haphazardly adorning his knuckles between tiny pitted gouges. ]

It is a theory. It's just one I want to apply. I think I have an idea of what's happening with the latest mission. I'd like to see if I can -

[ His prepared explanation is cut short by a chitter from within the nest of his sling. He flinches, tea sloshing to the edge of the cup but not quite splashing over. ]

Hey, hey - [ One hand comes back to settle over the cloth, his voice pitched down to a soft, soothing murmur. ] Shh.

[ Something turns over, a shifting bulge that presses outward in a stretch before it falls still. Krouse waits a moment, his eyes still downcast, and presses on. ]

I'd like to see if I can revert some of the changes. [ His thumb strokes a small arc. ] If they're taking on our thoughts, then - then maybe the point is seeing if we can get those under control. I think that might be what we're missing. The real answer.

And who knows more about that than a psychiatrist?

[he almost picks up Krouse's backpack to hang it up, but reels his need for tidiness back. the fire pops once, sparks falling against stone. all of his focus is on the young man, for the most part, though he can't deny the unnatural tang that emanates from the sling. it's distracting, aggressively so. as Krouse speaks, his gaze is likely to be caught (however briefly) dropping to the sling before refocusing. the rest of his expression remains unreadable.

his own plushie is hidden away upstairs this time, but one can't deny the occasional rustling of a wooden drawer. the energy is inching toward ominous.

Krouse himself is revealing himself to be more and more tattered and worn. Hannibal senses a desperation, a hidden urgency. he cradles whatever is hidden like one would a small child, and a little too delicately.]

I agree. Like the labyrinth, these are reflecting the darkness that we may not want to face. A twisted mirror.

[he uses we loosely. compared to Krouse, he is vastly unaffected.]

Are you asking for my opinion, or for my help?

[he needs to hear it.]

[ When the fire pops, Krouse flinches again, a smaller echo of the first. He brings the tea up to sip it to lower the waterline, because it's one small thing he can do to stave off a small disaster, and because it gives him a second longer to think, as if that makes a difference. He realizes how dry his mouth is when lavender sluices over his tongue.

He sets the teacup down. It clinks delicately against the saucer, ringing outsized in his ears. ]

I'm asking for your help. [ His eyes stay down, a thin ripple of helpless shame in his tone. ] Please.

[ After everything he's done, he knows he's past standing on pride. He's not reluctant to ask for help because he thinks he's above it. This is about the squirming things inside of him far uglier than what he's guarding under his sore fingers. Everything he doesn't want to drag up into the light, where someone with clear eyes can get a look in on exactly the kind of person he is.

But this isn't about him, and he's never found a line he wouldn't cross for what he owes to someone else. ]

I can make it worth your while. [ For this, he looks up, dark eyes gleaming with intensity. ] You've seen what I can do. I'm not a bad ally to have in your corner.

[everything about Krouse, from what Hannibal sees, is on the brink of a break. bits and pieces of the young man is cracking right in front of him and he meets it with a polite indifference. he can observe Krouse with an added separation, blanketed by professionalism.

he's showing symptoms of PTSD and likely a severe lack of sleep. the situation has to be treated delicately. he's seen how the seekers have been hunting those who protect their plushies so dearly, seen how it can cause a severe trauma response to those who are caught in public, defenseless.

yet Krouse is coming to him, asking for assistance despite everything likely telling him to continue guarding himself.]

I can help you, Krouse, but as I would help a patient; not for an exchange.

[he's well aware that Krouse will likely feel as if he owes him anyway, which is where he wants him. there's a small pause as he sips his own cup of tea. he's calculated, careful with his next words.]

You're in a very delicate headspace right now. I think the most appropriate way to approach this may include a form of therapy I'd prefer your consent for. [an excuse to test what he managed to find in the hospital on a human instead of animals.] Excuse my blunt words, but I have to ask, might you resort to violence while you're here?

[ Hannibal's meticulous carefulness makes Krouse even more acutely aware of how badly off he must look. A twitching, battered nervous wreck, fragile the way a volatile explosive is fragile. When he asks about violence, Krouse cringes, the curl of his protective hand accentuated as his shoulders draw in. ]

My gun's in my backpack. [ He glances at the fire, admission pressured and rushed. ] It's unloaded. If you were going to try anything, I was just going to leave.

[ Before he stepped inside, he'd thought that was enough of a show of his good faith. Saying it out loud, in the face of Hannibal's calm professionalism, his stomach turns over with messy guilt. What kind of symptom is bringing a fucking gun into a therapist's office? ]

I'm not going to hurt you. That's not - I'm not that kind of guy.

[ He doesn't want to be. He bites the inside of his cheek, pushing his shoulders back where they were as he draws up his back again. ]

And she's not going to hurt you either. I wouldn't have come here if I thought otherwise. [ Something coils under his palm, a tendril or a joint. ] I have it under control.

But if that changes anything for you - if you ask me to leave, I'll go. It's your choice. [ The tinge of desperation that hasn't yet left grows stronger as he keeps fumbling forward, every word feeling like the wrong one. ] But if you still want to help, then I'm saying yes.

[all words coming from someone who looks like everything is very much not under his control. Hannibal takes what Krouse says as half-truths. gaze barely flicks down to the backpack to acknowledge the weapon, instead keeping a tight lock on both the boy and his creeping, tentative partner hidden in its sling.

a little extreme, a little odd. wouldn't be the first time for him, though. he decides they're going to put a pin in that for later. through all the iron and flesh, he catches more of that desperation.

he leans forward, elbows resting loosely on his thighs,]

For all intents and purposes Krouse, I don't think you have it under control. That's why you're here. I'm the last resort.

[the words hang there, empty and cold, but are soon reinforced with something sturdier-]

Are you familiar with hypnotherapy?

[ More blunt words, this time without apology. When Hannibal leans forward, Krouse pulls back, shrinking under the incisiveness of Hannibal's gaze.

He's not asking Krouse to leave, but he doesn't seem thrilled. That's more than understandable. What Krouse doesn't understand is exactly how Hannibal isn't thrilled - it could be anger, or disappointment, or neither. He can't tell if he's picking up on signs, or if he's projecting onto the blank screen of Hannibal's professional impassiveness.

But he knows Hannibal is seeing through him, and maybe that's all he needs to know. He doesn't need to be coddled, as searingly uncomfortable as the alternative is. So he lets the judgment stand without pushback, which is as good as admitting it's true. ]

I've heard of it. I've never done it. [ He shakes his head. ] I've never done any of this. I mean, I talked to the school counsellor a couple times, but I don't think that counts.

[ So why would he even bring it up? Stupid, irrelevant - and on its heels, the realization he does have one experience that might be relevant to hypnotherapy after all. It flickers across his face, eyes widening slightly, then narrowing in determination. ]

I'd be willing to try it.

[Krouse makes himself small, practically turns belly-up under Hannibal's commanding gaze. he gives away nothing. in truth, the boy is here and asking for assistance when he could have gone on and continued to allow what that thing causes. he didn't have to hunt him down, the prey had come to him all on his own.

the same can't be said for many others. school counselors don't count, in his opinion, all very briefly educated and shoved into a system that they themselves couldn't put enough effort into. there are hardly diamonds in that industry and from what Krouse has told him, it was implied he was barely catered to.]

For your protection, and also for mine, I'd like to suggest something in addition. If you're comfortable.

[nothing about Krouse reads as comfortable to him. all sweat, fear, desperation and blood. it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. porcelain sauce and tea return to the table between them and he stands, making his way to the desk nearby to open a drawer. did he predict this?

he takes pride in how controlled he is, feeds off of discomfort in ways that others can't. it's as if Krouse's shaky behavior lends him even more power, creates more space between them as doctor and patient.

he holds up syringe. it's filled with something. pale, clean.]

I'm worried about there being certain triggers. This is a highly sensitive time for you. [so easy for him to string those words together, nearly a seduction as he holds the syringe up for Krouse to see. it sounds like a cares. in a way, he does.] This will allow you to discuss things with me without attachment, without fear. It's something I believe is close Ketamine, a dissociative anesthetic.

[which will make it all the more easier to tear that little creature from his person.]

Edited 2024-06-15 04:10 (UTC)

[ Two years ago, what Krouse knew about ketamine and its analogues fit inside of off-colour jokes about horse tranquilizers. He barely knows more now. Just enough to tighten the coil of uncertainty wound through him as he stares at the glint of the needle in Hannibal's hand.

Dissociatives are a niche product on the recreational use market. Most people prefer their substances a little more straightforwardly pleasant. But they're not talking about recreational use, and Hannibal isn't presenting the option like it's something illicit. Dissociative anesthetic. Disconnection and numbing. He can see how it'd fit with what Hannibal is proposing.

If Krouse thinks it through logically, quelling his reflexive anxiety long enough to think at all, he has to know Hannibal doesn't have a compelling reason to fuck with him. There's no angle on a short term exploitation that's worth the certainty of Krouse making him regret it. Like he said. Hannibal's seen what he can do.

And there's something about the clean, level calm Hannibal is approaching him with that makes the risk calculation feel almost obscene. Is it so impossible to believe that someone might take what they do for a living seriously? If he can't believe in altruism for altruism's sake, can't he at least believe that Hannibal is interested in testing a theory for the sake of learning more about the mechanisms at play?

(And hasn't Krouse done this before, worse and for less?)

He presses the squirming bundle of his fears closer to his chest. She hisses from all of her mouths, burrowing towards his sternum. His face is blanched, but his expression is quietly resolved, all his desperation gathered up into the gloss of his eyes. ]

If you think it'll make the therapy more effective.

[ He's come this far. If he's not willing to commit, then he might as well not have bothered. ]

Just - tell me how it'll work?

[ He's not asking for reassurance, his stomach twisting with miserable nausea. He's just being thorough. Taking an interest in the process. ]

[he stays where he is a moment, gauging Krouse's reaction. the amount of trust and sheer risk of confidence he has in Hannibal is one to be applauded. he's the first to truly put a life in his hands, but the doctor has no interest in killing him. he is true to his patients, he does want them to improve -- in his own way. there are several ways of administration, one is injection, the other is inhalation. but that would give away that he has other tools at his disposal, tools that he'd taken from the hospital. he'd like to keep that information somewhat a secret, at least for now. he's already revealed one drug and a syringe.]

I think it would be not only more effective, but beneficial to your well-being. Many psychiatrists find this form of therapy more productive in patients who suffer from severe depression or PTSD.

[by keeping a bit of distance between them, he's trying to allow Krouse some form of control of the interaction. there's nothing hurried about it, only a slow build.]

It's fast-acting. You'll feel little to no discomfort, only your body adjusting to the drug being in your system. It's euphoric, and you may feel a little giddy, but I'll be here as your guide to work through your traumas. You won't feel as connected to them, almost as if they happened to someone else.

Edited (wording weh) 2024-06-17 16:41 (UTC)

[ There's a deep-rooted twinge of rejection as Hannibal mentions severe depression, PTSD, even trauma, Krouse's gaze flitting away like a bird flushed from the undergrowth. Those aren't labels he applies to himself. That's not what this is about. He's not what this is about.

He came here for the sake of what he brought with him. He knows it's not her. If he's delusional, he likes to think he keeps his delusions more mundane than that. If it's anything, it's a fragment of the thing that ate her. The part of her he never figured out how to make peace with, starving and sick. Her and not-her, distorted through the warp of his ugliest feelings. So, really, all it is is a memory.

This isn't how she deserves to be remembered. If he's not what it's about, his head's still where the problem lies. It's easier to accept the premise this is for his benefit than it is to try to clarify that his benefit is the last thing anyone should care about.

His brief deliberations show in the slight furrowing of his forehead as he looks at the teacup in front of him instead of at the needle, breathing through his nose with his lips sealed thin. They part on an inhale as good as a nod, his attention flicking back up to Hannibal's face. ]

All right.

[ The dregs of hesitation evaporate. It doesn't sound so bad, and even if it did - so what? He can get through. He always does.

He reclaims his teacup and brings it up for a steady sip, a half-absent thought spared for hydration. ]

What do you need me to do?

[this is easy, as easy as feeding a starving animal. it's almost pitiful. Hannibal would like to unravel the intricacies that the creatures had begun to trigger in people, too; Krouse is handing it to him on a silver platter. a sacrifice. it's commendable. if all it takes for someone to let go of the little animals is for them to address their deepest, ugliest feelings, then this experiment will have been a success. whether Krouse thinks it's about him, well. it's all about him now. he might be the only one to willingly undergo such extremes for information that may or may not help the rest of Etraya.

he thinks what that may mean for Aurora and the data she is pulling for Echo. every choice has an impact, though it doesn't seem like the kind of choice matters to the AI that brought them here.

it doesn't matter to him, either, so long as he can do as he wishes. everyone is given a good amount of control over how they react, stuffed animals or not.]

It will be more comfortable for you if you lay down on the couch. [a half smile as he motions to the couch beside the chairs, an easy change.] Less problematic for me, too. If you decide to stay in the chair you'll fall out of it. You'll feel rather unsteady with very little muscle control-- as if you're underwater in a dream. Everything slows down.

[translation: once you're in, you're locked in. he leaves the room briefly to go to the bathroom, grabbing alcohol and gauze for sterilization, then the kitchen for a small metal tray. when he returns, the tray is placed quietly on the desk while he situates his original chair to face the couch, leaving it at a professional distance. he'll need room to administer the drug.]

[ The prospect of that locking in triggers another small wave of tells: tightness in his jaw and neck, a fractional dilation of pupils, fear manifesting as the very mechanisms of its suppression. He's not familiar with therapy. He is familiar with this kind of helplessness. ]

Okay.

[ But he stands up all the same as Hannibal leaves the room, compliant and readied. He doesn't watch Hannibal go.

When Hannibal comes back, there have been some rearrangements. Krouse's teacup sits empty in its saucer, while the top of his backpack bulges fuller than it did before, stuffed with the makeshift sling he's shed in another attempt at neatness. Krouse himself is sitting on the couch he was directed to, hoodie shucked and turned into a new nest in his lap. His bare arms are a blotched canvas of bruises and small, irregular bites, layered over older damage - the fresh, pink scars of the wound Hannibal stitched peeking out from under his black t-shirt sleeve and a larger, mostly healed canine bite on his left forearm among them. The worst of the bruises, all of which are looped and coiled, lie above his right wrist, repeated deep compressions speckled with pinpoints of angry scabbing.

Krouse doesn't seem to care about that exposed vulnerability. He's looking at what's hidden inside the bunched folds of his hoodie, his eyes soft as he strokes his thumb in a gentle, repeated motion over something small as he murmurs to it. ]

- and whatever happens with you, it's okay. Whether it works or not. I'm not going anywhere. [ A tiny, bittersweet smile. ] Promise.

[ He lifts his head to look at Hannibal, smile holding like a flickering candle. ]

I don't know if she understands me. But I think it helps. Tone of voice, and all that.

[ He draws his socked feet up, his sneakers tucked under the chair he was occupying, and stretches out on the couch. The hoodie-nest is shifted to his stomach, chirruping and squeaking. ]

Ready when you are, Dr. Lecter.

[ Everything else that's changed in the room since Hannibal left is something Krouse knows about. What he can't know, doesn't have the keenness of olfactory sense to guess at, is what shifting his little creature out of its swaddling has done to the air.

The reek of illness is stronger than ever, a miasma of animal and human ailment, but shot through now with a heated punch of fecundity. It stinks of metabolic processes going awry in two contrasting directions, a flurry of accelerated cell division competing with terminal decline. Over it all hangs the sharp note of fresh bile and the fruit-vinegar tang of ketones, evidence Krouse couldn't have hidden as neatly as the tiny lump of new tissue secreted away in the rags in his backpack if he'd known to even try. ]

[he hears Krouse cooing to the foul creature that he's allowed to cozy too closely to his chest. much longer and he's sure it would send the boy into a form of psychosis, if it already hasn't.

he internally braces himself for the sickly sweet smell that permeates through every particle of air. it's a slap on the face. he does everything he can to remain impenetrable, but a muscle twitches just once in the corner of his eye, breaking past his usual stoicism. he knows it's hardly noticeable and knows Krouse is honed in on caring for the sickness that bleeds into Hannibal's home, so he swallows the discomfort. the only respite is the fire's smoke, but it hardly has a fighting chance against the bubbling stench that rises from Krouse's torso. he recognizes it, knows that smell from patients he's treated in the past and people he's met, but it has never been this pungent.

he has to focus on other senses.

so many stories on Krouse's skin; reds, blues and purples blending together to paint a picture. jagged areas of skin where some scabs are peeling and others fresh. the indents and raises left by scarring.

the tray is moved closer to Hannibal, to the table. firm, steady hands take Krouse's arm delicately to disinfect the area of the median cubital vein. absently, he thinks of grabbing the creature and disposing of it outside right here and now. he can't take care of it inside, he's worried what sort of cleaning he'll need to do to clean his living room just by having it present.]

You may feel slight pinch. Don't fight it, remember you are safe.

[except, with Hannibal's skill, the impact of the needle breaking into skin barely exists. it's done so quickly and precisely that it's possible Krouse doesn't feel it. gauze is pressed against the area, though hardly for more than a few seconds. satisfied, he pulls back, sits himself in his chair neatly. one leg crosses over the other.

he waits in silence for a full minute, long enough for the ketamine to hit the system, early enough that Krouse may still have an crumb of control over what words leave his mouth before everything is taken over by impulse.]

Tell me about what you're holding. What it represents.

[ If not for the flush of contrasting temperature, Krouse wouldn't know when the needle broke skin. He focuses on a point on the ceiling and the sound of his breathing, two fixed references to ground him for whatever happens next.

He's too full of nerves, or too aware of the nerves he has, in the first few seconds before anything starts to happen. It hits him that he can't reverse this now, if he even wanted to. Whatever this will do to him is going to happen, no choice left but to ride it out if it goes wrong.

His stomach churns. The thing on top of it does the same, burrowing down towards his warmth. No hesitation, no fear, no aversion. It reaches for him with the insistence of not knowing any better than to want to be touched.

He hasn't done anything to teach it otherwise. He lets it do it more than he should, even though it only ever goes one way. He thinks he should have told Hannibal that before they got going. He doesn't want him to have the wrong idea about what's been happening. Most of these bruises and bites exist because he invited them.

They feel like they're floating on his skin, or he's floating underneath them. The undersides of lilypads in a sunny pond, or slow clouds in a summer sky.

He's being asked a question. For a hitching split second, he wonders if he won't know how to answer, but words come easily after all. ]

The other part of her.

[ A thumb slides into fabric, searching. It brushes against a tiny grasping talon like a baby bird's. He smiles as it latches on, little claws digging in firmly. ]

Noelle. [ He says her name softly, like it needs to be handled as gently as spun glass. It's the only thing not subject to the slumped slur of the rest of his speech. ] She was...

[ A ripple of discomfort goes across his face, unfocused eyes creasing, but it slips away before he feels it. ]

She was sick. I made it worse. I tried to make it better, but I just kept making it worse. I didn't know how to help her.

[ He lets his head tip sideways, distantly surprised by its weightlessness. He wants this next part to be understood, offered up to those ice chip eyes. ]

I wanted to help her. More than anything.

[the quick ascent to another plane is always a treat to watch. he recalls Abigail and her uncertainty about the psilocybin tea; how he had guided her through her traumas, the broken teacup.

now he has Krouse with his slithering creature that chirps and chitters with the rise and fall of his chest. he observes its movements with what can only be described as reserved disdain. one hand curls around the arm of his chair, if only to allow himself some release of the nauseating discomfort his senses are assaulted with.

if this 'Noelle' is what this thing -- thing, because that's what it is to Hannibal -- is, an embodiment of all of his regrets and guilt, then he's already learned something. the toys handed to them by the bots were meant to absorb every ounce of negative feelings or energy the person hid or wants to hide. it means the toy in his drawer upstairs is all the more dangerous, but maybe it's because he's able to compartmentalize emotions in different ways that he feels nothing toward it now. whatever the purpose of the toys are, it's bordering on malicious. if there is a specific outcome that Echo wants to see, he thinks it must be a negative one.]

You felt helpless with her and possibly enabled her illness because you were unfit to treat it.

[a weighted pause,]

Would you define your relationship as codependent?

[considering how Krouse continues to allow it to sink its teeth into him, he's guessing the answer is yes.]

[ The steady crackle of the fire blurs into Hannibal's voice, a counterpoint to the liquid rush of his heartbeat. Krouse shifts on the couch, arching his back slightly as a feeling of glossy emptiness swells up inside of him. It pushes out, stretching him to a thin, tremulous surface tension, a soap bubble clinging to the rim of a wand dragged through the air.

He sinks back down, the tiny shift immense in his perception. When he breathes, it ripples through him in a wave, then keeps rippling - out into the room, into everything he can feel with the brush of his power, but more than that. ]

No.

[ He still can't tell how Hannibal is looking at him, but it doesn't bother him anymore. He blinks slowly, fleetingly fascinated by the glide of his own eyelashes. ]

It wasn't like that. [ A barely there smile blooms on his mouth. ] She didn't love me back. I don't think she even really liked me.

[ That's what codependent means, doesn't it? Two people tangled together by so much love they can't come apart. It wasn't like that. He was the one who was all reaching vines, and she only let him cling because she had to. ]

It's okay. I didn't need it. I don't. And she was right. It was my fault.

That's why I had to fix it.

[ When he blinks this time, he lets his eyes stay shut. His power keeps touching things, but he isn't sure what they are. He only feels their weight, the hum of their relativity. ]

Have to. [ He swallows a mouthful of nauseous spit. ] Is it supposed to feel like this? It's...different. Not fog.

[a distinct release of sweat and adrenaline leaks from every pore, every shallow breath, as different neurons fire inside the brain to adapt to the drug. each minute that ticks by is precious and while it may feel like hours are crawling by, his high will only last fifteen or twenty minutes. since it's his first time taking it, it may linger on a bit longer.

his slow, absent smile gives it all away.]

While codependency can happen in romantic relationships, it's just as common in platonic ones. Her disorder wasn't yours to fix. You're holding onto a fair amount of guilt for her loss. Do you feel that you can let that go?

[he allows Krouse to get side-tracked momentarily. can't have a patient getting tunnel vision.]

Not fog, no. I imagine you're feeling weightless and delayed all at once. It's normal, and won't be forever. Take a few deep breaths if you need to.

[ Krouse's body takes a deep breath at the prompting, residual conditioning slipping into the gaps of conscious response. It's normal, so it's okay. He can let go of thinking about it, because almost all the thinking is (finally; again) in someone else's hands.

All he has to do is answer questions, one at a time. And he barely has to do that. He just has to let the answers come up out of the loose weave of memories and feelings that make up the person on the couch. ]

...everybody wanted me to let go. Talked around it, hinted. Said it, sometimes. She did.

[ His hand burrows further into loose, sticky fabric, fingers slipping underneath the damp weight of his tiny companion. She butts against his palm, nips at his fingers, disconnected sensations that send odd shivers he can't quite follow up his arm. ]

Everybody wanted to give me permission. Like I must've wanted to, deep down. Like I didn't know I could.

[ From within the hoodie, something arches, flexes, and, at last, snakes out. It's a pallid, pinkish tendril, slightly iridescent in the firelight, tapering to a thin point. It loops around his wrist like a coiling vine. ]

I could let go. Put her in another box, close the lid again. Be finished for good, this time. [ The tendril pulses in a squeeze. The skin coating it is delicate, slippery over the muscle like a hatchling snake. His eyes open, dark and hazy. ] Could've done it whenever I wanted. And I never wanted to. I don't.

I want to let go of me.

[ It seems so possible, now. To take these fragments and push them out to sea, if he could only cut the last binding cords. He's barely even afraid. The high humming in his chest is almost excited, almost brave, almost ready. ]

Whatever it is about me that does this. Did this again. Made this sick, like I made her sick, like I made - everyone I ever fucking got close to sick of me.

cadaver consolations | hannibal | cw throughout: body horror, drug use, psychiatric treatment

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cw: body horror, blood

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cw: needles, drug use

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cw: body horror

cw needles/drug administration, yucky vibes, also hannibal

cw needles/drug administration, drug use, psychedelics, self harm

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what better time to use this icon

yaaay that icon (':