
So, you're dead. Shame, that.
But on the other hand, it's actually kind of nice.
When you "wake" in some odd version of it, you'll find yourself lying on a rather plush bed. It's cozy and warm and just soft enough to tempt anyone back into sleep. The room is equally nice, if small, and when you turn and open the curtains to look out the window, you will see... wait, is that the town?
It is, actually. The town is laid out quite simply across the window and no matter how many times you may bang or wave through the window, no one seems to notice you. If you're smart enough to give up the venture and leave the small bedroom, you will notice that, of course, you are on the train.
The train that, is actually pretty fancy.
Moving through it, past the sleeping cabins and through to the main carts, you will find a dining car with fine dishware and meals of all kinds made at a push of a button or a request given to the air. They'll appear, freshly made and ready to eat at the table of your choice with any drink you could want. There truly doesn't seem to be any limits when it comes to the luxury of the meal.
There is also a bathhouse car with private bathrooms and saunas to fit up to four. Even one rather large room containing a small pool/hot tub of sorts is available for just about anyone to take a dip. It's kind of outlandish, honestly.
Then the lounge car, with its library and plush armchairs and couches. A pool table, a darts board, even a small area dedicated to painting. There's a bar too, fully stocked and ready for anyone who needs a drink. All it would require is a request from the bartender who... looks surprisingly familiar?
The Sheriff is there, much cleaner cut than his counterpart outside of the train. He looks up mildly at any arrivals, giving them a nod of greeting before going back to organizing bottles or setting cigars out for a smoke. He doesn't seem to be surprised at all by anyone who appears. Just... ready to serve them, whatever they may wish.
It all sort of seems okay for a moment, until you realize you're just here to wait for the game to end. Awkward. |
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It's going to play out all over again. Perhaps with even more dire consequences, as the players in the game become fewer and fewer. A Will that's separated from Hannibal isn't someone she trusts can keep his emotions in check.
But, for Hannibal to be so calm... Well.
Perhaps she's wrong. Perhaps she's laying her concerns out for nothing. One thing is for sure: she could live an immortal's life span and she'd never come close to understanding Hannibal. Similarities or otherwise, they've always been at stark ends of a spectrum, his hedonist tendencies and her ascetic inability to consider her own needs or wants. ]
...
[ Not that it changes her opinion of him. No, not in the least.
Briefly, she rises to go get some paper and a pen. ]
No one is there to calm him anymore.
[ That had been Hannibal's role, of course, but one that Chane herself had been able to perform in smaller measures. Now? Even having an idea how this could end, that doesn't mean her heart fails to ache at the thought of Will suffering through the next two days by himself. ]
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As he takes the paper from her and reads it, he thinks that this sentiment in particular couldn't have been expressed so easily through gestures alone.
He pauses before answering, and his amused, almost pleased expression does falter and soften. Before he answers, Hannibal nods, though it's slow and almost careful. When he does speak, his voice is soft and full of affection. ]
...It's true. If we had our choice, we would have died together. But we knew that was unlikely.
[ He looks back to his rack of lamb almost thoughtfully, but he decides that he can elaborate further. Chane has kept his secrets as he has kept hers, and that aside, he does simply like her. It makes it easier for him to trust in her and admit that there's part of this that she's slightly mistaken about. ]
It is better this way. Will and I— We are both creatures of wrath. I have no doubts that he will be here by the end of this week. But it is better because Will's does not burn so hot as mine. [ Which may be hard to believe, considering how calm Hannibal was as a default, and yet he continues with that same sort of calm that makes what he says a little chilling. ] If I were the one left alive, then the game would end. I would have slaughtered all those remaining to return to him, Chane.
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And Hannibal, who has been honest enough, if not wholly so... If he says, "it is better this way," then of course she believes him.
Oddly, it is reassuring to know that his implacable demeanor can be shaken. His love for Will makes a lot more sense to her as she is now, happily married and fully devoted, than it would have ten years ago, before Claire was in her life.
With a slow nod, almost a mirror of Hannibal's own from a moment ago, she writes some more. ]
It will be good when you two are together once more. I only hope he does not find himself here with regrets.
[ Like, you know, the kind that come from possibly eating a teenage girl? But that's crazy, Will would never — ]
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He will not. He may regret the circumstances that led to the moment. But he will not regret the act.
[ There's certainty in his tone, even if his voice is soft. He looks up at Chane again, and though his gaze is a bit intense when it's so focused on her, it's not threatening. With Chane, he feels at ease, more open and less likely to speak in half-truths. At least now. The reservations he had before are gone. ]
We do not live with regret. At least, not any longer. We had fought a great Dragon, and triumphant, stood by the sea as we died from what injuries it had wrought. Will pulled us together, off the cliff, and to the sea. So we are dead men. They cannot live with regret. And in our case, we also cannot live apart.
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Then again, maybe it's not simply Hannibal. Maybe it's this town, this game, this bewildering advanced technology and a Sheriff that defies all explanation. Chane tries, with debatable levels of success, not to let her skepticism show on her face.
Slowly, she nods -- "if you are sure," in something less than words. ]