Ophelia sat, still as stone, in the leather chair at the front of Hannibal's office. She resisted the urge to pick at the frayed parts of her denim shorts, or trace the swirling pattern on her tank top with the tip of her finger. Instead, she stared at the wall opposite her, on which a ladder was propped. Hannibal paced before her, past Alana and Jack who had joined them. It was rather early; far too early for anyone reasonable to be awake. So naturally, the four of them were up and about, preparing to execute a plan that Hannibal had concocted out of nowhere the night before.
Jack Crawford held a recorder up to his mouth and muttered, "August twenty-third. Six a.m. Hannibal Lecter's office. Subject Ophelia Ford."
It was a clear late-summer day outside Doctor Lecter's office. The sky was still tinged with pink and orange, and the light of the sun reflected happily off the top of the brick buildings surrounding the office. But on the other side of the glass, where the small group had convened, the sky was much different. Dark clouds hung over all of their heads. All except Hannibal, who appeared quite content at the scene playing out before him.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Alana looked away from the window and at Hannibal, who had come to a stop next to her, his expressionless face on Ophelia.
"It is the only way," his dark green and blue checkered shoulders barely moved when he shrugged. He adjusted his tie and looked down at the floor. Alana turned back to the window.
"Okay, Ophelia," Jack knelt before her, "Do you understand what we're doing here?"
"Yes," her eyes stayed locked onto the ladder. She would not let fear cloud her.
"Explain it to me," he held the recorder underneath her mouth.
"Why?" Ophelia tried her best to keep her face blank, imitating Hannibal, "We all know what's going to happen."
"For the record, kid."
"Fine," Ophelia sighed, "Alana recreated the drug using the sample Doctor Lecter found on my dress. You're going to inject it into me and see what happens."
"Correct," Jack stood and continued to talk into the recorder, "The drug cocktail in question contains high doses of Scopolamine, Gammahydroxybutyrate, Methamphetamine, and large doses of caffeine. It acts as a stimulant, steroid, and a sort of mind control drug, to use layman's terms. Under the influence of the drug, Ophelia seems to have experienced a bevy of emotions, ranging from extreme violence to extreme clarity. Under the watch of Alana Bloom, Hannibal Lecter, and I, she may give us an idea of how it effected her and the murders she committed under the influence of the cocktail."
"We should begin," Hannibal interrupted, "While the subject is still willing." His eyes darted to her face, then immediately back to the floor. His hands balled into fists in his pockets.
Ophelia snorted, "The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go to sleep." All she was able to portray was a sense of false bravado. In truth, she was scared out of her wits, but she would never let them see that.
"This is the closest thing to torture I've ever done," Alana hissed as she passed Hannibal, retrieving the syringe, "I'm beginning to doubt the legality of this. I was with you the last time she was pumped full of this stuff, Hannibal. It's abuse. It's sadism."
"Ophelia trusts my judgement," Hannibal cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to confirm.
"Yeah, yeah I do," Ophelia nodded, her back quickly straightening and the bun atop her head flopping with the jerky movement, "I want to do what I can. Prove my innocence, and everything."
"Exactly," Hannibal smiled at Alana, "She knows that it's what needs to be done."
Alana sighed and rubbed her hands over her face, "You always did find the most unethical way of doing things."
"Perhaps," he turned back to Ophelia, who had closed her eyes, "But they have proved to be quite effective."
"Let's hope so."
Jack turned to them, "Ready?"
Ophelia nodded, her lower lip beginning to quiver. She told herself to be like Hannibal: calm, emotionless. Strong.
"Tie down her hands," Hannibal muttered, "and ankles."
Alana took to pacing between the windows and Hannibal's desk. She watched as Jack tied Ophelia down with four sets of cable from the closet in the corner of the room. Ophelia took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. As Jack roughly tugged on the knots covering her wrists and ankles, she stared intently at the space beside Hannibal's face. He remained still, silent, and unmoving.
"Try to stay with us," Jack knelt before Ophelia, "Tell us what you see, what you feel, and everything you're thinking, alright?"
Ophelia nodded, "Yeah. Okay."
Jack looked from Ophelia to Alana, and then lastly to Hannibal, who nodded with approval as well. He tapped the side of the syringe, holding it in front of his face. The thick burgundy liquid laughed poisonously at them. Ophelia could just imagine it dripping from the fangs of a viper.
He folded her top up over her stomach and pulled a section of tanned skin taught with his forefingers; her stomach held the least amount of scars on her body. Jack took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to steady himself. And then, with a swift prick, he stabbed the needle into her abdomen.
The world around Ophelia froze. She felt her jaw wrench open, but Jack's hand, Alana's pacing, and Hannibal's tapping foot all ceased motion. Like clay cracking under heat, every edge in the room began to fracture, fray, and break away, leaving red-tinged blurs in their wake. Ophelia's eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs began to shake. Her back arched and her legs jerked inward, kicking against the legs of the chair where they were tied.
"Ophelia?" Jack asked, grabbing ahold of her shoulders and wrenching her forward, "Can you hear me?"
A strangled yelp scratched at Ophelia's throat. Jack took it as agreement, thought Alana and Hannibal saw it for what it was: a cry of pain.
"Who was the man who attacked you?" Jack tilted her head toward him, "Is he behind this? How is he controlling you?" Ophelia's eyes were still rolled back in her head and her jaw was wrenched open at an unnatural angle.
And then, she bit at him. The chair nearly fell over as she lunged forward, her eyes rolling and her arms cinched behind her. Jack fell backwards, scrambling away as Ophelia spat and snarled like a feral animal.
"Ophelia," Hannibal took a step forward, holding his hands out to her, as if in surrender, "Listen to my voice. You know who I am. You know who you are."
Her body fell back into a slouch on the chair. Her eyes stared upward, still whirring like the spokes of a bicycle. She seemed alert; as alert as one could be under such influence.
"Jack," Hannibal stepped back again, allowing him to resume his questioning. Jack got to his feet, brushed himself off, and approached Ophelia again, who was still staring at the ceiling.
"Ophelia Ford," Jack started again, "Agent Jack Crawford, here. You're in there, and I need you to tell me what you see. Why did you kill those girls? I know you didn't do it on your own. We're all sure you're not the type to do it anyway. So tell me. What's behind this? Who is behind this?"
Ophelia sighed through her mouth, then spoke, her speech slurred, "I'm not a bad person."
"I know," Jack agreed.
"You don't know," Ophelia's head lolled to the side, then back to Jack, "I'm a great person. I do so much for other people," She sounded as if she were just waking up from a rather lengthy and in-depth surgery, "My dad? Do you know my dad?"
"You haven't told us much about your dad," Jack said, "You told me once that he did medical research. That's all."
Ophelia blew out a heavy breath through her lips, "That's... that bullshit. My dad... my dad is a bad man..."
"What did he do, Ophelia? Why is he a bad man?" Jack looked back at Alana and Hannibal, who were at attention.
She seemed to mull the question over for a moment, then sighed, "Dad liked to make movies sometimes. Sometimes he made me watch them."
"What were they about?"
"It was just one in the end," Ophelia sighed, her head lolling back so that Jack was left to talk to her neck, "We are the causes of our own suffering."
"Sorry?" Jack took a step toward her.
"The Devil will eat the souls of the weak."
"Ophelia?"
"Everything changes!"
"Ophelia."
"Lying on your bed, looking at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Aren't you, Ophelia? Waiting for something to happen? And knowing all the time that you were meant for something better, Ophelia. Feeling it. Wanting it. Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia. You can help me get it. But how much can you take? How much can he take, Ophelia? You'll find out for me," Ophelia's voice fluctuated in pitch and volume with every syllable, her head shaking back and forth as if she were trying to speak to two different people on the ceiling at the same time.
"Ophelia, who-"
"How much can you take before you snap?"
"Ophelia, who said those things to you?"
Her head lurched forward, and she was somewhere else entirely. Ophelia's eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared. She clenched and unclenched her fingers and leaned back in her chair, trying her hardest to pull her legs from their binds and to her chest.
"Get, get, get these glasses off of my face; I don't want to wear them anymore," she whimpered, pulling against the cables. She shook her head frenetically, small strands of hair flying out in every direction.
"What glasses?" Jack leaned down so that his face was inches from hers. She would not hurt him now. She didn't even know that he was there with her.
"They hurt my eyes. They hurt my eyes when the movie comes on, Dad!"
Jack turned to Hannibal and Alana, "I can hear her heart. It's going crazy."
That was when Ophelia started screaming, "No more needles! Dad, please! No more! No more! I don't want to do it! I won't hurt anybody! Turn it off, turn it off!" And then her whole body began to convulse. Not like before, though. Before, her body was moving on account of the drugs. But now, Ophelia's body was shutting down. She was panicking. She was remembering too much.
"Ophelia!" Jack tried to hold her head steady, "Alana, Hannibal, untie her."
"Wait," Hannibal stepped forward, pushing Jack out of the way, "Let me calm her down." Jack stepped back, letting Hannibal kneel before Ophelia.
"Please," Ophelia whimpered to Hannibal, "Please make him stop." Her pupils were so far dilated that only a sliver of mossy green outlined them. Little golden wisps flew around her face like a wonky halo.
"Listen to me," Hannibal stroked her hair and cupped her face in his hands, "Tell me where you are. And who you are."
"What?" Her pupils began to shrink as she focused on Hannibal's face. For just a sliver of a moment, he appeared to have great black antlers. Darkness swam around his head, charged with electricity.
"Tell me who you are."
"Ophelia Ford."
"Good," Hannibal nodded, "Alana, untie her hands, if you will. Ophelia, tell me where you are."
"Phoenix."
"Wrong," Hannibal shook his head, "You are in Baltimore, Maryland."
"What?" Ophelia tried to pull her head out of his strong hands, but he held her fast.
"You've been dreaming," Hannibal assured her, "You're in my office. Do you know who I am?"
Ophelia stared long and hard at him, her pupils shrinking with every passing second, "You're Hannibal Lecter."
"Correct. Now tell me again. Who are you? Where are you?" Alana had removed all four cords binding Ophelia to the chair. She wrung them in her hands, watching.
"I'm Ophelia Ford," she blinked, still unsure, Hannibal's thumbs stroking her cheeks, "and I'm in Baltimore. In your office."
"You're safe," Hannibal assured her. And then Ophelia was back with them entirely. Her breathing was no longer labored, her brow was no longer dotted with sweat, and her eyes were once again malachite green.
She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around Hannibal's neck. Her fingers clasped onto the back of his suit. For a long moment, he let her, patting her noncommittally on the back and stroking her hair, which had fallen out of its ribbon and over her shoulders. As Jack made more notes on his voice recorder, Alana knelt beside Hannibal and Ophelia, stroking her hair with much more feeling than Hannibal.
"She needs to eat," Hannibal stood, allowing Alana to take over. She ushered Ophelia back into the chair and began to dab at the sweat on her forehead.
"We can take it from here," Alana assured him, "Take her home. Let her sleep, eat, whatever. She deserves it."
"Did I do okay?" Ophelia looked up at them, her voice weak, "Did I help? I know I lost it for a moment, but I got it back under control, I think. I tried. I feel sick, though."
"You pushed through it," Alana squeezed her hand, "I think this is going to be a game changer. Great job, Ophelia."
"We'll let you know as soon as we," Jack glanced at Ophelia hastily as he joined the small group, "find anything. On her father. It's obvious he's behind this in some way. We'll start by searching Phoenix directories and go from there."
"Okay," Alana followed Jack toward the door, "Hannibal, we'll be in touch."
"Please do," Hannibal shut the door behind them, his face serene. Before he turned back to face Ophelia, he collected himself. Below the surface, serenity was a thing of pure imagination.
"Could we go?" Ophelia tried to stand, wobbling sickly, "Please? I'm kind of hungry."
"Of course," Hannibal kept his composure, though it was difficult, "Let me help you." He hastened over to where she teetered like a foal feeling its legs for the first time. She grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and took a few steps forward. After a few more steps, Ophelia's knees buckled and she let out a barrage of halfhearted curses.
"Sorry," she hoisted herself back up, using Hannibal's sleeve again. This time as she walked, Hannibal rested his hand on the small of her back, flinching a bit every time she stumbled. She truly did look as if she could fall over any minute and sleep for days, as she had only a week before.
They were silent in the car, mostly because Ophelia was fighting sleep. Her body felt like lead, and her head an enormous anchor, holding it to the window of Hannibal's car.
"You've done an excellent job," Hannibal conceded, "It must have been hard on you. But this voluntary service is what may be the missing puzzle piece that Alana and Jack Crawford needed."
"I hope so," Ophelia sighed, "It had better be worth it." She cradled her stomach, flinching when her fingers found the place that Agent Crawford had injected her. A spot of blood had seeped through her shirt there. At least it had been an old shirt.
They ate in a long silence perpetuated by Hannibal. He fixed her a quick meal, forcing her to eat while he ate across the table. For the first time in a while, he felt guilt; every once in a while she would glance up at him from her bowl of soup, but would immediately go back to silently sipping the broth when she saw that he was watching her.
Hannibal licked his lips, his brow furrowed and his resolve wavering, "Alana Bloom could use a friend, I feel. As could you."
"What?" Ophelia muttered through her food.
"The opera is opening a new show in a week," Hannibal set his silverware down, kicking himself beneath the table, "You should come along. It would do you good to socialize with people other than the FBI and a psychiatrist."
Ophelia shrugged, "I like you, though. And Alana. Not too sure about Jack, though."
Hannibal laughed curtly, "Everyone feels that way, I believe. But it would still be beneficial for you to get out. Experience some culture outside films on my couch and books concerning the philosophies of Plato."
"Sure," Ophelia nodded, trying her hardest to remain alert through the conversation, though her eyelids were insisting upon closing, "Never been to an opera before."
"I usually entertain a small group of guests afterwards," Hannibal picked up his silverware again, a smile playing on his lips. He relished nothing more than the times he spent cooking for his small group of acquaintances. Perhaps it would lighten the dreary mood of the house. Cooking always seemed to do that for Hannibal; each room was alight with aromas while the sounds of Bach and Mozart aided in the creative culinary process. Just thinking of it put Hannibal in a much better mood.
"I could help you cook if you wanted," Ophelia rolled her shoulders, noting his immediate change in mood.
Hannibal looked down at his bowl, choosing to stay silent. He was unsure of whether or not Ophelia should be allowed to disturb the sanctity of the kitchen.
"Why don't you get some rest," Hannibal sighed, changing the subject quickly, "You and I have a full day of appointments tomorrow."
Ophelia rolled her eyes and forced a laugh, "Oh, fun! More Plato for me, then."
"I guess so," Hannibal stared down the length of the mahogany table at Ophelia, letting a minuscule smile slip across his face, "But for now, sleep."
He helped her up the stairs; her legs still seemed to be made of gelatin now, instead of lead. Once she was safely in her room, he relaxed, shrugging off his jacket and shoes and padding down the stairs to the kitchen. He cleaned in silence, imagining Ophelia working alongside him. Cutting the meat, washing the vegetables, or even simply setting the table. Something about the image of Ophelia working with food excited him. Perhaps she would share his passion for exotic culinary tastes.
After all, he did quite enjoy having friends for dinner.