A bastards design

Cheshire Cat

Will approached the cops house and his breathing hitched, he hadn’t been in the field for ages, not after the Garrett Jacob Hobbs case. Jack deemed that he was too mentally disturbed by killing Garrett that he wasn’t allowed to make arrests by himself, still, the words rang hollow in Wills mind, and he kicked the door, the lock splintering and collapsing under the force, slamming it open with a sharp bang.

“FBI! Put your hands behind your back and get down on the ground!” Will barked, charging into the room. He was a man on a mission, and determined to get to the bottom of whatever happened to Duncan.

He scanned each room meticulously, hunting the man inside with malicious intent, he knew the cop would be dangerous. But Will Graham was far more willing to jump the gun and toss himself into the line of fire if it meant that whatever sick fucks he was pointed in the direction of would be put down.
Permanently, if he had to.

There was a sudden blow to the back of his head, and Will felt the room start to spin, warm liquid dripping down the back of his head, running down his spine.
He swung his arm with vicious speed, connecting with a sickening crunch to the man’s face, sending him reeling backwards as Will tried to stay standing, his legs feeling like jelly as he pulled himself towards the kitchen counters to remain upright.
The blow to his head making the corners of his vision blacken as his mind was foggy and screaming at him to keep moving, keep moving. He needed to stay awake, or he knew that he would most likely end up looking like Duncan.

A blindingly hot, searing pain suddenly erupted from his stomach as the man slashed Will with a kitchen knife, dark red blood spilling onto the marble tile floors as he grasped at himself, trying to quell the flow of blood. Without thinking, Will lurched forward and smashed his forehead square in the man’s face, feeling blood splatter across his face as they both crumpled to the floor.



Will opened his eyes and immediately regretted it as the light seared them, the pain rattling off of his already bashed in skull, only increasing the feeling of agony. He could feel his arms aching against the rope that constrained him, yet he persisted in rattling his body, trying to work it loose.

“You’re awake, I’m surprised,” came a low voice, it almost sounded like a growl, “did a number on poor Adam’s face as well... I’m impressed.”

Will squinted and contorted his face at the figure in the corner of the room, he spat on the floor, unsure if it were his own saliva or blood, and bared his teeth, his voice hoarse as he snarled.

Fuck. You.
“That’s no way to treat a new friend of yours...”
“I’m not your fucking friend.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken Mr. Graham, we both are friendly with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, although,” he said with a dry laugh as he looked at the love marks littered across Wills body, “it appears you’re more than just friendly with him.”

The figure stepped closer and ran its hand across Wills face, who snapped his head back, sending the room spinning again. It chuckled, watching how Hannibal’s new toy squirmed and hissed under its grasp, Will’s mind was an untapped mine full of potential.
All it had to do was burrow its way into his mind and uproot it.

“I hear you two have a daughter together... perhaps I should pay her a visit and string her up, just like dear old Duncan... hmm?”

Will let out a gutteral, almost inhuman noise in anger, throwing himself at the figure with such force that the wooden cross he was tied to start to splinter and nearly buckled, bending the wood as his arms weakened.

The figure grinned and stepped into the light and the image of a person was revealed, his glasses gleaming as he took out a syringe, watching as Wills eyes widened in a panic.

“Let’s skip the formalities, shall we? The note that Hannibal left on Duncan’s body, a challenge, the first mark of war... and now I’ve made mine, his little toy. Battered and bruised poor Willoughby Graham, a chip off the old man’s block, aren’t you?”

Will hissed, the noise echoing the room and poisoning the air around him, “You know nothing about me.”



The man swung his fist at Will, connecting to his jaw and sending his brain spiralling as he almost blacked out.
Smirking, he kept battering Will, hearing the satisfying sounds of Hannibal’s toy snapping and breaking under his fists until his knuckles were red raw and coated in Wills blood.

“Ready to cooperate now Will?”
“Eat shit and die.”

The man was nearly consumed with rage as he grabbed Will by the hair. Forcing him to look at the man.

“Don’t you fucking know who I am?!” The man yelled, Will lazily looked up at him and squinted before feigning realisation. The man grinned at how Will looked terrified under his grip until he spoke, his voice grating and thick with hatred.

“Nope.”

A fist connected with Wills stomach, knocking the wind out of him and making him dry heave as the man took out a carving knife and approached him again.

“Maybe not now, but soon... now, I have a message to send to Hannibal.”
“What makes you so sure he’ll respond?”
“Have you no faith Mr. Graham? Hannibal will come for you, and he will drag the FBI in... and all just for you, but I’ll have broken you by then. You’ve shown your mental fortitude so far, but I’ll whittle you down, slowly. Truly you are a prize worthy of Hannibal, I see why he’s so enamoured by you... your resistance to my efforts in destroying your mind is... ravishing.”



Hannibal paced Jack’s office, it had been a few days since Will’s disappearance as he went on the hunt for Duncan’s killer. Jack entered the room with a package in hand and passed it to Hannibal.

“It’s labelled for you, no return address or anything on who sent it.”
“Pass it here.”

Hannibal took his penknife and carefully cut the tape holding the box together, opening it and immediately recoiling as he saw what was inside. Jack looked in the box and his face drained of blood as he saw what had caused Hannibal to react.

There was a lump of undoubtedly human flesh in the box, cut and carved into the shape of a heart.

A message.



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