Hannibal didn't appreciate the current situation at bay. It's been a week since his immersion into the academic institution. And the mixed attitudes that he has relieved and displeased his aristocratic sensibilities. His mixed perception is mostly due to the curator, he supposedly bedded on the first day of his employment. The actions and argument of ethics and work place environment reeled in, as Emilio unabashedly tries and fails to seduce the assassin.
To the curator's knowledge, their night was spent with bliss and blanking ecstasy. The unfortunate reality being the opposite of this endeavor. The assassin found the man quite a pompous prick, and bathing in an unappealing scent of thick perfume, thinking it would add to his graces. This, added with the fact that Professor Froideveaux was finally introduced to the assassin. A stout man with sunken eyes, and obvious financial backing. A few things could be deduced in the momentary introduction. The first being the man's desperate attitude towards 'pleasing' and 'friendly'. His gaze never faltering unless returned. The second being, a compulsive obsessiveness to underlying violence. His easily manipulated being, is attracted to the antithesis of his own identity.
And the moment that Froideveaux received the passing glance of his new colleague, the intimidating presence and graces invoked a similar sensation in him, as he met his closest friend. The same intensity that Anthony Keller gave him, when they first met. Franklyn latched on to it, in internal desperation. Which resulted in advances that bordered on invasion of personal space.
"I apologize, but I have prior commitments." Hannibal uttered for the fifth time in a row. Evading every approach Professor Froideveaux made for 'friendship'.
"Oh . . . Then what are you doing? Maybe I can help than we can—"
"Professor Froideveaux, I must decline your offers. I do not need your aid. And it would be advisable if you would please resume your previous work, or better yet, go home. Its late. I suggest you leave and enjoy your night." Silent irritation was palpable within the assassin, wanting nothing more than to retrieve his family.
Bedelia informed Hannibal of her and Abigail's landing on American soil. The elder woman was far from eased. In the eyes of the American bureaucracy, the present Bedelia is nothing more than a doppelgänger of a missing high-profile psychiatrist. Even with the faux identities and the tentative assurance she has with the help of Hannibal, she felt an uncertain fear. The far-reaching grasps of 'M', is never far from where they were.
"Oh, Uh okay." Franklyn turned away, feeling relatively dejected, as all his advances for friendship was turned down efficiently. The assassin turned back into his supposed 'study', living in a slum if paper work.
Franklyn was a dead end in regards to Tobias Budge. The stout man was just a cradle to hold the feeling of control Tobias had over him. It was a sad dance of vampiric like proportions, sucking all he needed from him and yet getting nothing in return. Tobias has efficiently used the man as a human shield, deflecting, and making sure a civilian and evidence were in place against him. An intelligent chess match between masters with time running against one over the other. The prospect of killing his own sister and Tobias Budge being more appealing with every waking moment
"How is your research Doctor Fell?" An expected voice echoed through the compact office.
"The same as always. . . My subject seems to be good at evading my attacks. It seems as though he is eyeing civilians instead." Hannibal glanced passively at the younger man, looking as if they have no conflicts to speak of.
"Well casualties are a staple of war." Tobias uttered, taking a seat at the dusty chaise, that had an Edwardian pattern on its cloth. It had tears and patches that mishmashed together, like an olden quilt. The wood sturdy but efficiency wary through its years of service. In all honesty, Hannibal wouldn't have personally picked the appalling furniture, but it was a 'gift' by the institution to its new member. An excuse to get rid of the old, rather tasteless item.
"I'd like an erudite conversation with you . . . Tobias." The assassin puts down his pen, and circles his way around his oak table. He leaned his hips against the front of the furniture, his hand covertly touching his favored scalpel. The item was situated beside the lined formation of pencils that differed lead depth.
"Well now, Doctor Lecter, you have so many names around the organization, I don't know what to call you exactly. I don't even know if Lecter is really your name. How can we be . . . Truthful if we don't know even the most basic of information?" Tobias baited the man in a languid manner. Coxing a fight, or even a break of etiquette.
"What is your goal with the information you've obtained?" Hannibal brushed off the question, mildly reacting to everything given to him. His right hand still placed oven the cold metal of the scalpel, inching it ever so closely into a more appropriate position.
"Collateral." Tobias answered flatly, examining the assassin for any unexpected movement.
"I've admired your work for years. Many names, same executioner. Your long list of achievements has always interested me. And yet, you retire." The last sentence having a hardened pressure as it left the lips of the younger man.
"Its a boring activity." A passive rebuttal from the assassin, lit the flame of simmering anger inside the younger man.
"I don't believe that you've never felt the exhilarating taste of being able to hold a life in your hands. In that very moment you are their God. Their lives would solely depend on your whim, such a power cannot be recreated by any other." Tobias stood, stepping close to the other's presence. Facing him, and wrapping his fingers around the older man's throat, pressing for effect. But not enough to elicit a violent response from the assassin.
"I was hoping we would understand each other." The statement painted a picture of a deranged and rather lonely man, looking for a certain level on kinship.
"Apologies, I must have immensely disappointed you. I don't share your idealism." Hannibal uttered, taking his left hand to grab the lingering hands around his neck. He gripped it hard enough to bruise, as a warning to the younger man.
"We don't have to share the same perspective to appreciate each other's work." Tobias responded, undeterred, moving his free hand to Hannibal's shoulder.
"Does imitating my chefs-d'œuvre give you that satisfaction?"
"What disciple refuses to imitate their masters? Even the Raphaelite disciples imitated their master's works." Tobias moved a step back, away from the assassin.
"What I refuse to understand is your undying fascination to the man called 'Will Graham'. So even the great beast of the west can fall drunk on the liquors of affection."
"A very menial assessment."
"I have always planned to take away your weakness. I never thought it would be two. A daughter and a man. I am disappointed, I thought we were similar." This pierced the assassin's thoughts, partially remembering Bedelia's warnings, and the other remembering every line of the mischievous millionaire's face.
"You have Franklyn it seems." A sly retort from the assassin triggers the repressed anger of the younger man.
"That imbecile! I have always wanted to kill him. Wring his neck till it snaps!" A burst of words echoed through the enclosed room.
Tobias in a fit of boiling rage, Hannibal took this opportunity to execute his plan. With the swift grip of his scalpel, he made a laceration on the younger man's face. A rather clean cut from the side of his eye down to the jaw, near the chin. It was relatively only skin deep, not puncturing any facial muscles.
By instinct, Tobias gripped the bleeding side of his face. The smell of metallic iron wafted through the air. The injured man let out a ragged laugh.
"Yes! Thats it! Il Monstro!" Tobias exclaimed, as his other hand, grasped the handgun. A glock was situated on the inner holster of his jacket. A swift movement was all it took to retrieve it, and aim squarely at the assassin's torso.
The younger man immediately pulled the trigger, bounding off rounds of ammunition, with no specific direction but the moving target of Hannibal Lecter. The assassin, immediately, bolted down, avoiding the bullets efficiently. Seven bullets were still possibly in the magazine, as Hannibal counted the aimless barrage. The assassin used the ugly chaise as cover, as he tried to concoct an idea to off his rather troublesome enemy.
"It's no use 'Dr. Hannibal Lecter', there would only be one winner in every war." Tobias uttered in a mocking tone. Inching closer to the chaise.
"You are correct." Hannibal uttered, launching himself on to other man. The gun flared in the process, shooting a graze on his waist. The gun was tossed to the side, as Tobias struggled. Hannibal pressed the scalpel to the other's left eye socket, stabbing it. Blood spurted from the ophthalmic artery; a scream of pain hurried out of the younger man's throat. In the scurry of movement, the assassin took this opportunity to remove the sharpened metal tool, making the eye damage more severe. He used the tool to deeply cut his victim, as close to the trachea as possible.
Tobias struggled to breath, slowly drowning in his own blood. Jerkily scratching at his own open throat. His mind only continuing the words 'the blood won't stop' in a loop. On the other hand, Hannibal sat back and watched the scene on his destroyed chaise. The bullet holes and damaged upholstery looked more appealing than its previous form.
It took an aggravating seventeen minutes for Tobias to struggle till death dawned on him. Every minute that passed, looking straight as his killer, who took the time to bandage the injuries he incurred. He was lucky this time, even with his calculated nature, a bullet is still a bullet, and can pierce the skin no matter what.
When Tobias finally reached his end, the assassin took his time to recline and catch his breath.
"I have . . . Opened your gift. It is . . . Unappealing." Hannibal uttered, after answering the call on his phone. No caller ID was shown, meaning, it was most likely the sender of this unappetizing gift.
"Finished already? As expected of you, brother." Mischa said passively, laying down on her king-sized bed. Watching Hannibal's recline on a camera. She watched the whole affair, finding everything amusing to an absurd point.
"I think you know what to do next." The assassin uttered in a stern voice.
"Of course, since I owe you at least this much." A light airy reply was said, before Hannibal ended the call to Mischa's dismay.
Chiyoh on the other hand was present in the room, and watched her childhood friend mercilessly watch a man struggle to death. The cold gaze as Hannibal slashed the other throat, after pinning the man to the ground was predatory. The gaze was similar to her employer's, cold, calculating and ruthless. A Darwinian philosopher would have fulfilled their raison d'etre just watching the siblings 'survive' in their own twisted way.