Hum de dum. So, this is a little fanfic idea that came to me while I
was studying (which I should be doing right now if truth be told...)
and I just had to write it down. This is a fluff prologe of sorts, mostly
because I felt that things moved too abruptly without it. So enjoy, read and review, visit my webpage, visit my webpage, visit my webpage...
Disclaimer: Everyone is just jealous because the voices talk to me!
Actually, they spoke to Thomas Harris and gave him the
wonderful ideas in 'Hannibal'. So it doesn't belong to
poor old studious me.
Under Attack
by Lyra Matsuoka
Chapter 1 : Daddy's Little Girl
My first real memory is of my father. He was standing in the kitchen,
and I had just learned to walk. Being quite taken with the process, I was
toddling all over the house, and I finally arrived in the kitchen. What
I remember is not the journey; I don't even remember what drew me to the
kitchen. But I do remember clutching at the doorframe and waiting for him
to look at me. And when he did, I smiled the biggest smile and he smiled back.
He must have been cooking, but he walked right over to me, picked me up
and twirled me over his head.
"Where are you off too, Mischa the adventuress?"
Not the kind of behavior you'd expect from a cannibal, is it?
My name is Alexandra Michelle Lecter. I was born a year and a half
after the Muskrat Farm encounter, to former Special Agent Clarice Starling
and Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter. I swear he chose cannibalism simply
because it lent itself to a clever nickname. But that is inconsequential.
I was born a fraternal twin, and from the moment of our birth, my brother,
Jack Dante Lecter and I were on the run.
I became Mischa through the careful scheming of my parents. Both
wanted my to have my own name, but the idea of not at least calling me
Mischa was impossible to comprehend. So they gifted me with the middle
name Michelle, pronounced Me-shell. Therefore, Mischa was a natural
nickname, and I have been Mischa to my parents and brother since I was born.
I have been Alex, Lexi, Lexa and Andra since, but Mischa is the name I
am always tempted to give when people ask.
Most of my memories are happy ones. I did not have a normal childhood,
but then, few children whose parents are on the run from the FBI ever do.
Go ahead, ask them sometime. If you can find one willing to talk to you.
I grew up all over the world. I remember splashing my hands in the fountains
at Trafalgar Square when I was three, of viewing Paris from the top of
the Eiffel Tower at seven, and of running ideally through the streets of
Florence at eleven.
And always, there were my parents.
I half idolized my mother. She was beautiful, confident, happy.
She could shoot a gun and speak four languages. She could use a computer
and dance beautifully. She was, to my young mind, something of a goddess.
But she told wonderful stories, and never failed to tuck my brother and I
in at night. No matter where she and my father had gone, no matter how
late it was, I could always count on a kiss goodnight. As I grew older,
lessons in martial arts, shooting a gun, and law enforcement came, and I
was happy to learn. I inherited my mother's guts and determination, that
was certain.
My father and I seemed destined to be close. We shared interests, and
he guided me carefully through a world of art, music and taste. He was a
caring teacher, and I a willing pupil. He taught Jack as well, and the four
of us were an inseparable family unit. By the age of five I understood why
home schooling was an absolute necessity, and by the time I was fifteen, I
wouldn't have had it any other way.
I was an odd teenager. Not only did I never fight with my parents (what
relatively sane person would? I am not genetically bred to be sane, and I
wouldn't do it. Still won't) but I never even considered arguing with them.
It was necessary to their safety that we not argue, and I was bound and
determined not to undermine their safety. Besides, there wasn't any real point
to it. My parents were almost always right, and I preferred to save my breath.
It made sense to do so, and it taught me a great deal.
My father rarely 'worried' about my brother and I. He did try and talk
us into plastic surgery. My for my face, and my brother for his hand. My brother
had six fingers on his right hand; my father's genetics had bred true. We both
refused, and he never pressured us about our decision. I believe he understood
that Jack was waiting for the right time to have that sixth finger removed, and
that I was too much of a daredevil to care.
When we were seventeen, my brother and I packed our bags and headed out
to see the parts of the world we never had. My parents encouraged this, wanting
us to venture out on our own. But my father was concerned for our safety. He
warned us to stick together and to come home at once if anything out of the
ordinary occurred. Being good and obedient children, we nodded solemnly, left the house and said our own goodbyes.
I have not seen my brother in over a year.
Cairo, Athens, and Tokyo whispered seductively of places yet to be seen
and of friends yet to be met. And like my father, I followed. Wandering was a
good pastime, hitchhiking was interesting, and I was happy. But I missed my
brother, and I missed my parents desperately. So I was on my way home when a
prying, nosy, to old for their own good, patriotic, concerned American called
the FBI hotline.
Did I mention I look exactly like my mother?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
There you have it. Short, but for the most part a simple background thing.
Now, you see the little box that you can type in? Goooood. Now, type
something happy (comments, smilies, etc.) in said box!
Peace, Love and All That Jazz,
Lyra
was studying (which I should be doing right now if truth be told...)
and I just had to write it down. This is a fluff prologe of sorts, mostly
because I felt that things moved too abruptly without it. So enjoy, read and review, visit my webpage, visit my webpage, visit my webpage...
Disclaimer: Everyone is just jealous because the voices talk to me!
Actually, they spoke to Thomas Harris and gave him the
wonderful ideas in 'Hannibal'. So it doesn't belong to
poor old studious me.
Under Attack
by Lyra Matsuoka
Chapter 1 : Daddy's Little Girl
My first real memory is of my father. He was standing in the kitchen,
and I had just learned to walk. Being quite taken with the process, I was
toddling all over the house, and I finally arrived in the kitchen. What
I remember is not the journey; I don't even remember what drew me to the
kitchen. But I do remember clutching at the doorframe and waiting for him
to look at me. And when he did, I smiled the biggest smile and he smiled back.
He must have been cooking, but he walked right over to me, picked me up
and twirled me over his head.
"Where are you off too, Mischa the adventuress?"
Not the kind of behavior you'd expect from a cannibal, is it?
My name is Alexandra Michelle Lecter. I was born a year and a half
after the Muskrat Farm encounter, to former Special Agent Clarice Starling
and Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter. I swear he chose cannibalism simply
because it lent itself to a clever nickname. But that is inconsequential.
I was born a fraternal twin, and from the moment of our birth, my brother,
Jack Dante Lecter and I were on the run.
I became Mischa through the careful scheming of my parents. Both
wanted my to have my own name, but the idea of not at least calling me
Mischa was impossible to comprehend. So they gifted me with the middle
name Michelle, pronounced Me-shell. Therefore, Mischa was a natural
nickname, and I have been Mischa to my parents and brother since I was born.
I have been Alex, Lexi, Lexa and Andra since, but Mischa is the name I
am always tempted to give when people ask.
Most of my memories are happy ones. I did not have a normal childhood,
but then, few children whose parents are on the run from the FBI ever do.
Go ahead, ask them sometime. If you can find one willing to talk to you.
I grew up all over the world. I remember splashing my hands in the fountains
at Trafalgar Square when I was three, of viewing Paris from the top of
the Eiffel Tower at seven, and of running ideally through the streets of
Florence at eleven.
And always, there were my parents.
I half idolized my mother. She was beautiful, confident, happy.
She could shoot a gun and speak four languages. She could use a computer
and dance beautifully. She was, to my young mind, something of a goddess.
But she told wonderful stories, and never failed to tuck my brother and I
in at night. No matter where she and my father had gone, no matter how
late it was, I could always count on a kiss goodnight. As I grew older,
lessons in martial arts, shooting a gun, and law enforcement came, and I
was happy to learn. I inherited my mother's guts and determination, that
was certain.
My father and I seemed destined to be close. We shared interests, and
he guided me carefully through a world of art, music and taste. He was a
caring teacher, and I a willing pupil. He taught Jack as well, and the four
of us were an inseparable family unit. By the age of five I understood why
home schooling was an absolute necessity, and by the time I was fifteen, I
wouldn't have had it any other way.
I was an odd teenager. Not only did I never fight with my parents (what
relatively sane person would? I am not genetically bred to be sane, and I
wouldn't do it. Still won't) but I never even considered arguing with them.
It was necessary to their safety that we not argue, and I was bound and
determined not to undermine their safety. Besides, there wasn't any real point
to it. My parents were almost always right, and I preferred to save my breath.
It made sense to do so, and it taught me a great deal.
My father rarely 'worried' about my brother and I. He did try and talk
us into plastic surgery. My for my face, and my brother for his hand. My brother
had six fingers on his right hand; my father's genetics had bred true. We both
refused, and he never pressured us about our decision. I believe he understood
that Jack was waiting for the right time to have that sixth finger removed, and
that I was too much of a daredevil to care.
When we were seventeen, my brother and I packed our bags and headed out
to see the parts of the world we never had. My parents encouraged this, wanting
us to venture out on our own. But my father was concerned for our safety. He
warned us to stick together and to come home at once if anything out of the
ordinary occurred. Being good and obedient children, we nodded solemnly, left the house and said our own goodbyes.
I have not seen my brother in over a year.
Cairo, Athens, and Tokyo whispered seductively of places yet to be seen
and of friends yet to be met. And like my father, I followed. Wandering was a
good pastime, hitchhiking was interesting, and I was happy. But I missed my
brother, and I missed my parents desperately. So I was on my way home when a
prying, nosy, to old for their own good, patriotic, concerned American called
the FBI hotline.
Did I mention I look exactly like my mother?
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
There you have it. Short, but for the most part a simple background thing.
Now, you see the little box that you can type in? Goooood. Now, type
something happy (comments, smilies, etc.) in said box!
Peace, Love and All That Jazz,
Lyra
