Title: Curiosity Killed The Cat
Rating: T - For Language, Scenes of Violence, Themes of a Sexual Nature, and Eventual Romance. Rating Will Go Up In The Sequel.
Author: QuikkSilver
Chapter: One
Reviews: None. All Reviewers Shall Be Thanks At The End Of Each Chapter.
CHAPTER ONE: VERY INTERESTING INDEED
She sat quite calmly in front of him, her neat blonde hair brushed back and her small fingers tapping restlessly on her bulky backpack. Her moving fingers were the only sign of her impatience – indeed, the rest of her was a picture of serenity and unshakeable peace. He closed the door softly behind him, the doorjamb clicking, and went around his desk, noting her appearance as he did so. She was small, with slender wrists and a sleek, coiffed pageboy style haircut. She wore khakis, sensible low-heeled shoes, and a gray vest over her white dress shirt. Everything about her was well put together, as though she were a small porcelain statuette which had been crafted by experts. A pair of simple, innocent brown eyes followed him behind his desk, and he offered his hand. "Doctor Dennings, I presume?" She said, and something about her voice was slightly off-kilter, a little fluttering near the edges of her words. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons, the writer who contacted you last night." She sounded hopeful, excited even, and Dennings realized this was her first time in a high-security ward for the criminally insane. It still had a ting of novelty for her.
Dr. Dennings was a slightly stooped, older man, with chestnut colored hair which was graying at the temples. Glasses with thick frames were settled on the bridge of his nose, and he wore a slightly overused lab coat and squeaky-soled shoes. His face had several lines, but his eyes were young, and she got he impression he was a young man who had aged too quickly. The crows feet deepened around his eyes as he looked at her, something cool and evaluating in his green eyes. His mouth twisted slightly, just a twitch of his lips, as if he didn't much like what he saw.
"Yes, I remember," He said, and smiled a little. "I read some of your articles – they're quite impressive. You're a very talented writer, Miss Clemmons, but I'm afraid you might be a bit over your head here." He informed her, and his eyes roamed over her fragile, petite body. Her blonde eyebrows raised, and she tilted her head to one side.
"I'm not sure I understand. I can assure you I know how to conduct my interviews with inmates so they're not upsetting. I have some excellent credentials, a few very good recommendations –" She said, but was cut off in the middle of her argument.
"I'm sure your credentials and prowess concerning the criminally insane are exemplary, Miss Clemmons, but the patient you wish to interview is not someone who is safe to approach. He's a complete monster, a man who will stop at nothing to destroy and devour." A strange little smile quirked the sides of Dr. Dennings's lips. "He's a complete psychopath, Miss Clemmons, and you understand how rare it is to have one alive and fully functional."
"I know," She said, perhaps a trifle too eagerly, and Dr. Dennings saw just how excited she was. "I'm writing a book – I may have mentioned that when we were on the phone – and I need to study them for my research. I'm extremely fascinated, Doctor, and you were the only person who would listen to my request."
He looked at her and sighed slightly, expelling a breath through his nostrils. Had it been any louder or longer it would have been titled a snort. "Very well, Miss Clemmons. Come with me." He stood abruptly, and she gathered her large, bulky backpack and hefted it awkwardly onto one shoulder. She followed him quickly, and he arched an eyebrow at her bright expression. She truly was fascinated, the naïve little thing. "There are a few rules concerning Dr. Lecter," He began as they filed down a narrow hallway full of bustling attendants in crisp white uniforms. "Do not approach the bars – I can't stress this enough. Do not approach it under any circumstances, and do not accept anything he gives you. Also, anything you pass him cannot be anything sharp – no pens, pencils, paper clips, nothing. Got that?"
"Yes, sir," She said, and the two of them descended several steps, her low-heeled shoes clicking slightly on the dampening floors. "I can assure you, I just want to talk to him. Nothing more." She hesitated for a beat, and then looked up at him from beneath a sheaf of her blonde hair. "Will he talk to me, Doctor? I mean, is he responsive?"
"Believe me, he will want to talk to you," Dr. Dennings said tiredly. "A bit too responsive, sometimes. He's quite clever, Miss Clemmons, and he will do anything he can to get inside your head. He will want to know everything about you, and if you don't tell him, he'll find it out anyway – the way you move, the way you speak, the way you ask questions. He's very cunning, Miss Clemmons, and that's what makes him very, very dangerous."
This did nothing to cause apprehension – if anything, she seemed even more excited. "That's exactly what I'm looking for, sir, thank you so much," Ariadne said with a smile. "I'll send you a copy of my book when it's finished, all right? It shouldn't be too long, I've already laid out quite a bit of groundwork. Now I just need some proof to back up my arguments." She seemed so pleased, the stupid little idiot, Dr. Dennings thought to himself.
He gave a slightly forced grin. "You do that, Miss Clemmons. Jack will go over a few more rules with you, and he'll be watching you on camera. If you ever need help, feel uncomfortable, or anything, just look in the left hand corner of the corridor. Jack will be watching, and he'll come in if you need anything." He said, and then straightened his ugly tie. "Now, please try to be careful, Miss Clemmons," He finished, and opened the final door for her.
There was a small antechamber in front of her, windowless, with two chairs against the wall. A small booth, surrounded by glass, was in the center, and there was a sturdy iron door to the right of the booth. Inside the small chamber, there were quite a number of switches and dials, along with a few blinking lights and several TV screens to watch the multiple camera angles with. Seated in the center, spinning slowly on his swivel chair, was a burly redheaded man, with wide shoulders and a blocky build. A nightstick dangled from his hip, along with several bunches of keys, and he had a simple, honest look about him. "Excuse me," Ariadne said, approaching the opening in the booth slowly and tapping on the glass. She held up her small plastic tag which said Journalist. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons? The writer?"
"Oh, yeah, shit," Jack said, and then waved her forward. "I'm Jack. Can I see your ID, please?" He said. She flashed a quick smile, and then let her bag down with a thump. After some fumbling in her pocket, she withdrew a chunky man's wallet and pulled out a small plastic rectangle, sliding it under the glass. Jack picked it up with his thick fingers and studied it for a moment. The photo on the ID matched her almost exactly, save her hair had been a bit longer, and he waved her through. "Come on in," He said, and pressed a button. There was a harsh klaxon noise, and the iron door opened with a buzzing sound. Ariadne entered, lugging her backpack behind her.
"Dr. Dennings said you had a few more rules for me?" She said, seeming a little antsy to get to the next room. Jack smiled at her and held up a hand.
"Yeah, I do: don't do anything stupid. Use your brains, you'll be fine." Jack said, and smiled. "You'll be great – just don't get sucked into his little head games. Tune 'em right out, it's how I handle him."
"He's perfect," Ariadne said, and Jack raised his brows. "I mean, for my research," She stuttered, and blushed. "Dr. Dennings was the only person who actually listened to me. Every other institute hung up once they heard I was writing a book, and that I was a woman."
"Well, that's how it goes," Jack said, and clapped her on the shoulder. "You'll do great, kid. Just be careful. I'll be watching –" Here he pointed to the TV screens, " – so don't worry. Okay? Okay." He went back inside the booth and pressed a different button, and the door closed behind her. She felt her insides quivering with anticipation, and she began her slow walk down the corridor.
He watched her approach, still seated on his bed in the corner, hidden in shadow. He was one of three patients on this block, three patients who were deemed "functioning psychopaths". A cold smile lifted the corner of his mouth when he saw her stop in front of his cell, well out of harm's way, and his quick blue eyes scanned her with a ferocity and intensity which would have made any normal person shy back. She did rear back a marginal amount, her left foot tracing a dainty path behind her leg so she could stand with her legs crossed, and he smiled wolfishly to himself. She was neat, small, a delicate bird ready to be crushed, and he waited quite calmly for her to speak. The behemoth of a bag on her shoulder was allowed to fall to the ground with a loud thump. "Doctor Lecter?" She called out, her hazel eyes straining to see the shadowy figure in the corner. "Doctor Lecter, can you hear me?"
She wasn't frightened. That meant she was either stupid or as crazy as Jakes in the next cell, and this interested him. He had no view in this room – nothing except a few sketches taped to the walls, a few drawings he had made with the stub of a pencil they allowed him. "I can hear you quite well," He said back, and she shivered at the metallic, almost sing-song voice, accented slightly with an unidentifiable twist to his words. "And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"
He's so civil, she thought, and dropped to her knees to find a notepad and pencil in which to write down her notes. "I'm Ariadne Clemmons, Doctor Lecter, a journalist. Could I have a few minutes and ask you a couple of questions?" She asked, scribbling down several notes in shorthand. His queer blue eyes flicked over her body from head to toe, from her carefully combed blonde hair to her ironed ankle socks. She was writing with her left hand, but she stood with her body weight on her left side, indicating she had been a right hander but switched.
"And what answer should I give you, Miss Clemmons?" He said, his drawling voice sending chills down her neck and causing goose-bumps to rise up under her shirtsleeves. "Should I answer your questions proudly, because I am a confirmed psychopath who is indeed quite fond of displaying his trophies, or should I pretend to be a meek lamb who is remorseful and ready to rejoin society? You must let me know the rules of the game we are playing, Miss Clemmons, otherwise I'm apt to cheat."
"You could answer honestly," She said, and for the first time since her arrival, he moved. He got up, and she saw he was a stocky, muscular man with a wiry, furtive strength about him. He had to be strong, to do what he did, and Ariadne felt the excitement in her belly diminish somewhat, replaced with a sour tang of fear. He approached the bats on the front of his cell, gripping them tightly in his hands, and looked at her, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth.
"But we all know I'm mad, therefore incapable of giving an honest answer." He purred, and Ariadne looked up at him, tilting her head to one side.
"Give me an answer that you believe is true, then," Ariadne suggested, and a little spark of approval lit his cold blue eyes.
"Well done," He said silkily. "You employed one of the many tricks of the trade, trying to get into my head...Well done, I say. Kudos. But you don't want to be in my head, Miss Clemmons," He said, and his grip on the bars tightened. Ariadne felt the coiling tang of fear in her gut grow larger and fill her mouth. "My mind is a place which nobody has entered and come out sane, Miss Clemmons. It's not a place for good little girls like you." He cocked his head to one side, in a mocking imitation of her earlier action. "Because that's what you are, isn't it? A good little girl, trying so hard to be perfect in every way, pleasing everyone right and left...How does it feel to keep your emotions bottled up, Miss Clemmons? Do you feel madness creeping in on you while you wash the dishes, sweep your floors? Do you wish you could kick and punch and scream, but the confines of your rearing has shackled you to good behavior?"
He was getting to her, he could tell, but she merely took down a note and kept her eyes focused firmly on the page. "You're a clever man, Doctor Lecter, but this interview isn't about me. I'm writing a book, Doctor Lecter, about the intricacies of criminal minds, and I was hoping you can give me some insight." Her words were measured, careful, and concise. Not betraying too much emotion. She had done this many times, he observed, and his canine smirk slid over his mouth again. She was tamping down her emotions again. It would be fun, he decided, to pick apart her beautiful wrapping and watch her shed her good behavior like a snake sheds its skin. All she needed was a little push.
"And what do I get out of this arrangement, Miss Clemmons?" He asked, still at the front of his cage. She looked up, and he saw a flicker of indecision on her face.
"You get the public recognition, of course, and I doubt money would be of any use to you here," She said softly, the words bordering on a question, following the line of her tone as it sloped upwards. "I can't give you anything else, Doctor Lecter."
"Oh, of course you can," He said, his metallic growl settling along his words again. "Quid quo pro, Miss Clemmons. For every question you ask me, I ask you another. We shall both attempt to get inside each other's minds, see what makes them tick..." He sneered. "Although I can say you wear your emotions out on your sleeve, Miss Clemmons."
She jumped then, and he knew more from that flinch than anything else she had told him silently. She prided herself on the ability to keep her mask in place, to keep herself under a sheet of calm indifference. And those hazel eyes were questioning for a split second, wondering why he could take her apart so easily, open her like a rose blooming. "I can't make any promises like that, Doctor Lecter," She said. "If you wish to help, that's fine. But I can't –"
"Come now, don't be childish," He said condescendingly. "I have enough recognition without your stupid book, Miss Clemmons. And you cannot write a book about fantastic criminals without including myself, can you?" Those blue eyes laughed at her, and she felt small and stupid again, as though she were an infant. "No, I would be the piece de resistance – Your crowning jewel, if you will. We shall both benefit from this exchange."
She stood, sliding her pencil back into her pocket and stuffing her notepad – containing at least six pages of hastily scribbled shorthand – into her bag. She shrugged the bag back onto her shoulder, and the white line of her throat jumped out as she shouldered her burden. As she struggled with it, for a heartbeat her throat was exposed, and he saw it was clean, white flesh. He smiled in cold appreciation. "I'll think about it," She told him. "Thank you for your time, Doctor Lecter. I'll be in contact with you by the weekend." She said, and began walking towards the door.
"No hurry," He called after her. "One moment, though," He said, and she paused, turning back to him. Those artic blue eyes were dancing at her, alive with cruel light. "Why did you change your dominant hand, Miss Clemmons? It interests me greatly. You were born right handed, and yet you write with the left."
There was a long silence, and then she said, "My mother was a leftie. I suppose I take after her."
As the thick door boomed shut behind her, Hannibal Lecter stayed motionless, staring at the floor. His white teeth – pointed and sharp, even in the darkness – were bared slightly. "Very interesting," He whispered to himself. "Very interesting indeed, Miss Clemmons."
I realize Hannibal is slightly OOC, I'm hoping to fix that. Please, just give this story a chance and tell me what you think.
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