characterdefect | 09 ◈ text + spam

spam, backdated to last laugh } hannibal

[Roderick is - not content, but happy enough. The chaos of this place gives him something to do that aligns nicely with his nature, even if there's no love in it, no common ground, even if the Joker's full of shit to his eyeballs.]

[He has a gun - not his favorite weapon, but a close second - and is prowling Level 6 without any particular agenda other than giving hell to whoever he happens upon, when he looks up and there's Dr. Lecter. Well . . . probably Dr. Lecter. It's got to be; it's the same face, same height, same build. But he does not look well.]

[A species of mad hilarity in his eyes, Roderick thinks, suddenly uncertain, and ventures neither forward nor backward. He does not look Hannibal right in the eye. He is not naive enough to think that this man is anything but dangerous on his most stable days.]

Dr. Lecter. You seem a little. Frazzled.

spam } infirmary

[This time, Roderick elects to stay in the infirmary. He could have fled with some - well, a lot - of effort, but the thought of standing exhausts him. It's not even that he's tired, exactly; it's that he remembers so clearly the sensation of muscle parting from muscle that he is afraid, yes, really and truly afraid that if he stands, if he begins to walk, he'll come apart at the seams.]

[So he stays in bed and watches the world reflected in the red light behind his closed eyelids. For the first few days he doesn't talk, not even to Horatio. On the fourth day of the toll, he sits up and demands something to write with and a blank notebook. He doesn't know what he's going to write until it comes out, but it ends up being nonsense, fragments of phrases he's heard before that ring in his mind.]

[Eventually his hand cramps, then the pen runs out. Until then, he stays where he is.]

text } morgana, c'rizz, mira

you dead?

Threaded | Flat

No, still alive. Some residual effects from the drugs, but not nearly so bright anymore.

Bad death toll?

I am not. Did you?

[There is a creature shaped like he is. It walks upright, it carries a weapon in its hand. It looks and it walks and it speaks. It has the skin and mien of a man.

But it's not a man. Hannibal knows.

Men - women - people and progress and humanity, they are only illusions. They play at being better than the basest animals. They lord free will and intricate thought over the beasts they fear most in the wild. And this is not the civilization that he cherishes so. Cherishes. Cherished. What did civility and politesse matter in a world made up of the rude?

He licks his lips, fingering the butter knife. It's turned up against his forearm again, hiding its bloody state; there is no hiding the shiv's work.

There is no hiding the blood on his face, his shirt.]

Frazzled. Yes.

[What does hiding it matter, if there is no true vision of humanity left to hide it from?]

You're armed. [You monster.]

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