congratulations! your character is dead — for whatever reason, whether it be canon, au, what have you. it'll be a bit of a journey to the afterlife, though, so your character might as well talk to the other people. death knows no place: most of them are strangers, even from faraway worlds. but death knows no time either, so who knows, some of them may be familiar people, whether recently deceased or long so. maybe your character know how they died, maybe they don't. perhaps the memory is fuzzy, or perhaps it's crystal clear. maybe it was simply their time or maybe they weren't at all ready to go, but none of it matters. your character knows they're dead and the train is taking them to an afterlife.
oh look — here comes the snack cart.
>> POST your character. >> TAG others. >> HAVE FUN.
[The last thing Will can remember is how he'd strained so hard to clamp his hand down over Abigail's throat, how he'd fought with the last of his strength to stop the life from pumping out of her—but the blood had gushed, hot and wet against his palm, staining it.
His grief in that moment—for Jack, for Alana, for Abigail—had been so immense that Will had forgotten all about the pain tearing through his belly, or his entrails spilling out into his hand.
Then he'd seen the stag breathe its last breath, and inky darkness had inched in from the edges of his vision until there had been nothing but black.
Black, which turned into a pure white that might have been blinding if he weren't past the point of senses, of reason, of life. The small bit of consciousness that's left thinks that this is not what he would have expected from the afterlife. He had expected nothing, a lack of existence, his soul crumbled apart and cast to the wind, to leave yet another body (meat, nothing else) as evidence.
At least Hannibal will have no way to escape from his own crimes, Will thinks. At least.
But then the white starts to take shape, and Will feels again. Feels something under him, feels breath in his lungs and as his hand jerks to his abdomen, his eyes open.
He's on a train. Across from him is a window, and while there's a landscape speeding past, it's indistinct. Will takes a few seconds to inspect his stomach more closely, but there's no sign that he had ever been wounded. As if that proof had been stolen from him.
It's only when he looks up a second time that he spots Abigail sitting further down, and Will's up and out of his seat before he's really registered it. He pauses in front of her and bends down slightly to stare into her face. No, he still can't believe that she's here—wherever here is.]
Abigail. [His voice is raw and breathless, like he hasn't used it in weeks.]
[She's not sure how long she's been on the train, her view transfixed outside as the world seems to pass her by. It's peaceful - more peace than she's known in a long time. There's no pain, no blood, no betrayal -
Her hand drifts to her ear, surprised to find it returned before moving back down to her throat, fingers tracing over where her scar should be. There's nothing - just clear, porcelain skin... As if what she remembered hadn't happened... As if it were a just a horrible nightmare. It had all just been a dream, she hadn't been used as a lure, manipulated and exploited to the point of losing herself... Or what she'd believed to be herself. It had to be a horrible dream, right?
She refocuses at her name, eyes settling on Will. A small smile graces her lips, glad to see a familiar face.]
[That smile makes Will feel like his knees might give out from under him. It's something he never thought he'd get to see again, and before he can stop himself his hand moves forward to cup Abigail's cheek.
In light of everything that happened with Margot, Will's feeling more paternal than ever. Hannibal had kept her from him, this whole time, had let him mourn her so that he could pull her out of hiding when it would hurt most.
Her question jerks him to attention, and he takes another look around the train. They're the only ones in this particular cart, and Will suspects that even if they search the rest of it, they'll find it empty.
It really does feel like a dream, but it might be more than that. His hallucinations in his death throes, maybe.]
I don't know if it's a dream. What's the last thing you remember?
[She turns slightly into his hand, the contact comforting. She can almost feel herself relaxing as the train jaunts along, her body adjusting to the rhythm. She should have been expecting his question, the thought process only logical. It didn't mean she was ready for it, though. Her expression shifts, pulling away from him slightly as she looks down at her hands.]
Blood. There was so much blood. I trusted him to keep me safe and he betrayed me - used me. I let him --
[She takes a shallow breath, a tear rolling down her cheek as she shakes her head from side to side.]
But he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. Not to - he wouldn't. He promised me he was nothing like my father - he swore and I...
[She continues to unravel in front of him, her words becoming incoherent. The denial is deep-seated, a demonstration of just how strong of a hold Hannibal had taken in her mind. She tries to justify it as a nightmare rather than reality.]
[The more that Abigail speaks, the more Will's heart feels as if it's going to break apart in his chest. This is almost worse than if Hannibal had just killed her when they'd all thought he did. Instead, he's manipulated her and abused her to the point that she'd simply stood there while he sliced her throat open just the way her father had.
Will takes a seat next to Abigail and reaches out for her shoulders so that he can pull her to lean against his chest. At this point she needs to cry it out, and while he wishes that he could shield her from the truth, that would make him no better than Hannibal.]
He promised a lot of things, Abigail. To all of us.
[It's not as if Will hadn't fallen under Hannibal's spell. He'd simply figured it out a little sooner than the rest of them, and that had brought its own share of grief with it. He draws his hands through Abigail's hair, forces himself to be strong on her behalf.]
He's not what we thought he was. He kept you close because he knew that would hurt me the most.
[She doesn't fight it, letting herself get pulled in. Any hope she'd had of maintaining a semblance of strength is gone at the contact, coming off as no more than a babbling child in her mind. She buries her face into his chest, the tears freely flowing.]
I'm sorry -- I'm so -- I'm so sorr --
[For letting Hannibal manipulate her, for shoving Alana out the window. For being so weak. She should have seen what was happening, she knew his secret and he knew hers. She should have stayed as far away from him as she could. She should have trusted Will completely from the beginning. She should have--
There's a reason they say hindsight is 20/20. She settles after a few long moments, the hands in her hair helping her focus back on the present rather than the past. It's an effort, but she eventually evens out her breathing, it only hitching sporadically. She's sure this isn't the last of the tears, not once the dreams come and the guilt settles in like an old friend.]
I shouldn't have let him, I should have been stronger. Strong enough to stop my past from repeating itself.
[She finally pulls away, wiping at her face. She takes a moment to look around again, slipping her hand into his to maintain contact - a human connection.]
[It's not common for someone to break down the moment they make contact with someone else, particularly if it's an embrace. It allows them to feel safe, protected from the outside world -- although as things stand, they look to be alone.
As Abigail hiccups and tries to get words out, Will just holds her, one hand sliding up and down her back in what he hopes counts as a comforting gesture. He had never been father material, that much should be obvious with how things turned out, but he has to try.
He's spent the past few months (the time he's thought her dead) thinking back on their last interaction. How crazy he'd felt in that moment. He'd scared Abigail to the point that she'd run away from him, right into Hannibal's open arms. Will blames himself for that, not Abigail. He's the adult here, he should have been able to keep it together -- but then again, he'd also been very sick at the time.
Now they're both here, wherever here is, though he doesn't think he wants to know the answer. At this point, though, Will's already realized that he can't hide from ugly truths, no matter how much he may want to.
When Abigail pulls back, Will easily releases her, though he keeps a tight hold on her hand.]
I don't know. I could hazard a guess, but... [But that's insane, and he's not insane.] We should take a look around. [He stands and gently pulls Abigail up with him.]
[She'd needed to do that, to let the walls collapse in a moment of weakness - a moment where she truly feels safe. Nothing about her life or the way she seemed to cope with the traumas that accompanied it were normal. There's so much she should have done differently if she'd been a little braver or a little stronger.
She lets him pull her up, taking a moment to steady herself as she looks at him.]
Are you sure that's a good idea?
[The emptiness of the car in combination with her sudden lack of scars hasn't been lost on her, despite her momentary slip. She looks up and down the train car, hand still in his. She just stares for a long moment at a door at the end of the car, thoughts starting to organize themselves as her clarity slowly returns.]
What's your guess?
[Because she has a few of her own, all seeming more out there than the last.]
[Will's gaze catches on Abigail's hand intertwined with his own and for a moment that's the only thing that exists for him. Her smaller fingers laced with his, like stitches putting them back together. From the look of things, though, it may be too late for them.
He understands why Abigail might be reluctant to search around when they have no idea what's out here, but they can't stay here forever, either. (Or maybe they can. Maybe that's the point.)
She asks him outright for his opinion of what's going on here, and Will's mouth twists downward as he stares out through the windows at the passing scenery. No matter how hard he looks, though, he can't make out much.
Abigail's a kindred spirit. She'll hear him out.]
Either this is some hallucination and I'm still bleeding out on the floor, or... [He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and finally looks down at Abigail, into her bright eyes.] Or purgatory is a real thing. [For all of Will's conversations with Hannibal about God, he'd never truly believed in anything like an afterlife. His free hand strays down to his stomach again, though, and he finds it as intact as before. There's no other way to explain that.]
[She processes his words for a long moment, trying to keep her face as expressionless as possible - a trick she'd gotten better at during her time with Hannibal. It wasn't something she was proud of, improving her ability to compartmentalize her emotions, shut them down until she was ready to deal with them... If she ever truly was.]
My scars are gone.
[She's not sure if that helps at all with either theory, her free hand drifting up to her returned ear while the other tightens slightly around his. She turns slightly to look at him, her tone flat.]
I think the second one may be closer to whatever this is.
[Perhaps her father's victims had been on this train at some point as well. The thought sends a wave of guilt through her. They would have been alone, probably scared, and she'd help send them there in her place.
She feels her breath start coming a little faster, the grip on his hand loosening. She didn't deserve his comfort - not after everything. She was closer to being a monster than she was before and monsters don't deserve to be loved...]
[Both of them have been restored, all of their parts put back in place and sewed up as if they never happened. Will can't decide how he feels about that. As nice as it may be to see Abigail intact, that's only in a physical sense. All of those unseen scars are still there.
It's one thing to be a survivor, to be stronger than the one who abused you and to show them that. That's what he'd tried to tell Margot to do.
But if he's right about this train and where it's going, then they're no longer survivors. Their bodies are growing cold somewhere, and maybe there are a few people mourning them -- if Jack and Alana somehow lived.
It's just the two of them, and so Will frowns when Abigail pulls away from him. All they have is each other, for better or worse, so he doesn't want her to retreat from him.]
I guess we'll see, if this train ever stops. Are you ready to take a look around?
[Will's growing more and more anxious the longer they stand around here. If anyone's sharing this train with them (or conducting it), then he'd rather find them than the other way around. Even now, fear settles insistently in his chest.]
[She wants to react to his frown, offer him some sort of reassurance but she has none to give. Instead she breaks the contact she wants so much, wrapping her arms around herself.
She just nods, stepping out into the aisle of the compartment. She keeps her head dipped slightly, not meeting his eyes.]
Which way do you want to start?
[A part of her wants to find other people, but there's a quiet whisper at the back of her mind reminding her to be careful what she wishes for. If this truly was a train for the dead, it could get so much worse before it gets better - a punishment for her actions in life.]
[When Abigail keeps her head down, Will gets some idea of what it must be like to be around him. He's hardly ever able to meet people's eyes either, but he would with Abigail. There's nothing for either one of them to hide anymore, not after all that they've been through.
He considers her question, glances up and down the aisle and then shrugs his shoulders.]
Let's move toward the front of the train.
[Unless the train somehow powers itself, there would have to be someone up there. Not that Will knows what to expect. The grim reaper? Hardly. All of this is so surreal, he keeps waiting for the moment when he wakes up.
But he doesn't think it's coming this time.
Quietly, Will grabs for Abigail's hand again and starts to lead her down the aisle to the next train car. He hopes she won't pull away this time.]
[She almost flinches at the feeling of him reaching for her hand again but she doesn't fight it. The internal conflicts between what she knows versus what she knew continues to wage on. She lets her eyes drift up to him before returning to look at the door, letting him lead.
It shouldn't come as a surprise that the next car is empty, some tension leaving her body. She moves slightly in front of him, curious. Her hand stays connected to his, making a point to not pull away again even if that temptation is still there.]
It looks exactly the same. It all looks the same, down to the seats.
[Her eyes drift down to observe the fabric, each seat looking like a carbon copy of the other. It was unnatural and set her a bit more on edge than anything else. It was all so perfect and clean - she didn't like it.]
[Will doesn't mind if Abigail leads. While his instinct might be to keep her from danger, that ship has already sailed, and it's obvious by now that he's not at all equipped to protect her. He's failed both of them, and he can't even begin to figure out how to apologize for that.
He may as well have signed Abigail's death certificate the moment that he showed more than a passing interest in her. It had marked her as a point of weakness for Will, one that Hannibal had been all too willing to exploit.
At Abigail's observation, Will takes a closer look around the area, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he realizes she's right. It's as if they're the first people to ever ride this train, although he doubts that's the case.]
Untouched. Pristine. We can't leave our mark on anything anymore.
[They're ghosts, and that means they're indistinct.]
[When he confirms it, she can feel herself start to shake, the panic returning. It's reminiscent of how she'd felt in the hunting cabin when everything started to fall apart. She tries to calm herself, do what she'd been told in group - focus on her breathing...
In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In... Out...
She doesn't let go of Will's hand, her grip tightening if anything as a few tears slip out. They're dead. Stuck on this train for who knows how long... Maybe forever.
She's about to say something when she hears the door opening behind them, eyes darting to look. She opens her mouth to scream, nothing coming out. For every step her dead father takes forward, she stumbles backwards, dragging Will along with her.]
[Will watches the way that Abigail's chest rises and falls as she tries to control her breathing and calm herself down. A stab of guilt hits him because he's upset her, but there's also no denying their situation.
When he spots the tears streaming down her cheeks, Will's plan is to reach out and brush them away. He tries to formulate some words of comfort, anything that might console her, but he doesn't get very far before the sound of the door opening behind them distracts him.
Will glances over his shoulder, but doesn't even have the chance to register what's going on before Abigail's franctically pulling him away.
Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He's haunted Will ever since the day of their encounter, and so at first he's not that surprised to see that face -- not until it sinks in that he's a ghost now too. That may mean Hobbs can do him harm. Or worse, do Abigail harm.
As Will continues to back away, his hand still gripping Abigail's tightly, his free hand reaches for a gun that isn't there. Will would shoot Hobbs ten more times if he got the chance.]
Back off. [His voice comes out stronger than expected.] You don't get to hurt her -- you've already done enough. [He's already done too much.]
[There's so much about him the FBI doesn't know, still doesn't know -- will never know. She doesn't want to get put into the position of having to choose, knowing he doesn't hold the same power over her. She pulls on Will's hand, moving towards the other door. If they could make it through, they could hopefully keep her father out. She's not going to worry about what else could be waiting for them.
Her free hand fumbles for the door behind her, eyes still on her father as he gets closer and closer. She manages to get the door open just in time, quickly pulling Will through it -- her breath burning in her lungs.]
[The ghost doesn't actually say anything, just advances toward them with a deadly intensity. Will may already be dead, but in that moment he couldn't feel more alive, with his fear causing his blood to boil and his heart to pounding its way up into his throat.
Abigail manages to move whereas Will is only dragged, but they make it through the door into the next train car and Will reaches forward to slide the door shut.
He has no idea if they're safe. None of them are actually corporeal at this point, are they? Hobbs might be able to walk right through walls.
Then again, if they're not alive anymore, maybe there's nothing to be scared of. Hobbs can't hurt them. Unfortunately, no amount of logical thinking actually helps to get rid of the fear.
Will catches his breath and turns toward Abigail.] Are you all right?
[She's learned to move despite her own fears. It had been a struggle at first, being the bait for her father, the feelings coursing through her veins similar to what she used to feel.
When they stop, when the door is finally shut, it starts coming back... Being on a train, these feelings at war within her as she approaches the target - a smile plastered on her face that doesn't reach her eyes. She doesn't respond at first, watching the scene play out before her with sickening detail.
She can feel herself shaking, trying to pry her eyes away from the scene, but it's too hard. Tears stream down her face as breathing becomes more of a challenge.
[There's no answer, which means that Abigail is the exact opposite of all right. Will had already known that, of course, but as the tears start and as she struggles for breath, he can tell that she's in the early stages of a panic attack.
So he reaches out to grab her by the crook of either arm and walks her backward until she hits one of the seats in the train car, then eases her down into it.
Will kneels down on the floor next to her and brushes Abigail's hair back so that he can wipe at her tears. He doesn't think he's ever been particularly good at tenderness, except for maybe with his strays -- but Abigail's a stray in her own way, and he's never felt more protective of any human in his life.
He and Hannibal discussed the parental feelings he took on so many times, and now the anger at how it all turned out, at what Hannibal did to Abigail hits him all over again. He has nowhere to put that anger, no one to take it out on except for Abigail herself and he won't do that. So instead Will pulls his hands away from her and clenches both of them into fists which he presses down hard into the carpeted floor of the train.]
Breathe, Abigail. Just breathe. [Even though they're dead and probably don't need to breathe anymore.]
[She lets him guide her back, hands moving to lightly grip his forearms as she sits, the feeling of the back of her legs hitting the seat. She turns into one of his hands, breaths catching as she turns slightly into one of his hands before he drops them.
She listens to his words, trying to find the comfort in them - but it's difficult. Her minds drift to her father telling her to breathe in an effort to calm her as he guided her knife while cleaning the deer, her stomach suddenly knotting up.]
I'm sorry. I'm sor- I'm so sorry.
[Apologizing just seemed to be her gut response, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for at this moment... Maybe for lying to Will, trusting the wrong man - playing into Hannibal's hand and letting him manipulate her like her father had before. Maybe it was for the deer, or for the girls she baited.
There was so much to apologize for.
She had no idea who she was anymore and she'd never have a chance to try again - fix things. That alone was worth an apology slipping from her lips. She takes in his anger, the way his fists dig into the carpet, instead reaching out a tentative hand to rest on his left shoulder. She slides it down, gesturing for his hand - a connection. Someone she hadn't hurt as badly as everyone else, though possibly more so in some ways.]
[It's not Abigail that's hurt Will. It's Hannibal who did that; he only used Abigail as a conduit. As soon as he saw the connection forming between them, he must have realized that nothing would wound Will more than Abigail being harmed.
Though Hannibal had taken it a step further. He'd made him believe that she was dead (and for a time, Will had even though maybe he'd killed her) and let him live in that lie. Will had accepted it and grieved for her, when the entire time Abigail had been right there, right under Hannibal's thumb.
Will swallows hard, and he thinks that if it weren't for the fact that he's already dead (his guts spilled out on the floor somewhere a world away) he'd be choking on bile. If only he had searched harder, maybe he would have found her and saved her before it turned into this. He's not much of a father when he didn't even think to search for a girl whose body had never been found.
When Abigail reaches down for his hand, Will forces himself to return the gesture. Abigail's palm is ice cold, but Will imagines he feels the same way to her. It makes sense, when both of them bled out.
He hears a movement from the other side of the train car and immediately jumps to his feet. Standing there in a stained white dress is Marissa Schurr. Even though her feet are solidly on the ground, her arms hang up at either side as if she's a marionette being controlled by invisible strings -- or as if she's still suspended on those antlers.
With Hobbs behind them and Marissa in front of them, there's nowhere to go.]
[It's hard to look for something that was kept right under your nose, like Hannibal had done with Abigail. He'd kept her trapped without a cage, manipulated enough that she didn't even think to run.
Something settled that deep was hard to shake, even now with the knowledge of what Hannibal had done to them - how far he'd truly been willing to go. She doesn't pay any attention to the chill of his own hands, too focused on attempting to keep herself functional despite the how quickly everything was coming undone.
Though whatever she might have done in the moments before a scream slipped out didn't matter. She gasps for breaths that aren't coming as she watches the unnatural movements of what had once been her best friend. Her eyes dart behind her at the rattling of the door to the train car, flying out of the seat in response.
She didn't know which was worse, the man who'd pulled her own puppet strings for so long, got her to be a part of something horrible and unforgivable or the girl who'd been a friend to her at the wrong time.
She shakily steps out into the aisle, tears continuing to flow as she slowly moves towards what she deems the lesser of two evils. Her hand brushes at her forehead, almost expecting to find blood there like before. She knows she should stay by Will, but if this was an atonement for her sins, a chance to try and make things right - she couldn't hide from it forever.]
[Will definitely isn't going to let Abigail face this on her own. These are mental obstacles for them to surpass, rather than physical ones. Will doesn't think they'll be able to run from each one they way they did with Hobbs, but he also has no idea what rules this train runs on.
As much as he would rather shove Abigail behind him and handle this for her, he instinctively knows that he can't do that. Marissa was her friend, someone who died in part because of her (not that she should blame herself, not ever), and that means that she has to be the one to overcome this.
Even so, Will stands at her side, his fingers still intertwined with hers.
His expression cracks with fear as he watches the dead girl jerk forward. Her shoulders twist and roll and her head lolls to the side as she takes one step, then another, then another, closing the distance between them slowly but surely. Her dark hair hangs in front of her face and masks most of it, but once she gets within a few feet of them, her neck snaps back and reveals her blank expression.
Blood starts to gush out of the puncture wounds in her body and spills all over the floor. While a voice rings out, her mouth doesn't actually move.]
You should have died, instead of me. You died anyway, didn't you? So why did I have to, Abigail? Why?
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bakerstreet2014-07-28 03:21 pm
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His grief in that moment—for Jack, for Alana, for Abigail—had been so immense that Will had forgotten all about the pain tearing through his belly, or his entrails spilling out into his hand.
Then he'd seen the stag breathe its last breath, and inky darkness had inched in from the edges of his vision until there had been nothing but black.
Black, which turned into a pure white that might have been blinding if he weren't past the point of senses, of reason, of life. The small bit of consciousness that's left thinks that this is not what he would have expected from the afterlife. He had expected nothing, a lack of existence, his soul crumbled apart and cast to the wind, to leave yet another body (meat, nothing else) as evidence.
At least Hannibal will have no way to escape from his own crimes, Will thinks. At least.
But then the white starts to take shape, and Will feels again. Feels something under him, feels breath in his lungs and as his hand jerks to his abdomen, his eyes open.
He's on a train. Across from him is a window, and while there's a landscape speeding past, it's indistinct. Will takes a few seconds to inspect his stomach more closely, but there's no sign that he had ever been wounded. As if that proof had been stolen from him.
It's only when he looks up a second time that he spots Abigail sitting further down, and Will's up and out of his seat before he's really registered it. He pauses in front of her and bends down slightly to stare into her face. No, he still can't believe that she's here—wherever here is.]
Abigail. [His voice is raw and breathless, like he hasn't used it in weeks.]
no subject
Her hand drifts to her ear, surprised to find it returned before moving back down to her throat, fingers tracing over where her scar should be. There's nothing - just clear, porcelain skin... As if what she remembered hadn't happened... As if it were a just a horrible nightmare. It had all just been a dream, she hadn't been used as a lure, manipulated and exploited to the point of losing herself... Or what she'd believed to be herself. It had to be a horrible dream, right?
She refocuses at her name, eyes settling on Will. A small smile graces her lips, glad to see a familiar face.]
Will.
[Her smile turns to a small look of confusion.]
Wait, what are you doing in my dream?
no subject
In light of everything that happened with Margot, Will's feeling more paternal than ever. Hannibal had kept her from him, this whole time, had let him mourn her so that he could pull her out of hiding when it would hurt most.
Her question jerks him to attention, and he takes another look around the train. They're the only ones in this particular cart, and Will suspects that even if they search the rest of it, they'll find it empty.
It really does feel like a dream, but it might be more than that. His hallucinations in his death throes, maybe.]
I don't know if it's a dream. What's the last thing you remember?
no subject
Blood. There was so much blood. I trusted him to keep me safe and he betrayed me - used me. I let him --
[She takes a shallow breath, a tear rolling down her cheek as she shakes her head from side to side.]
But he wouldn't do that. He wouldn't. Not to - he wouldn't. He promised me he was nothing like my father - he swore and I...
[She continues to unravel in front of him, her words becoming incoherent. The denial is deep-seated, a demonstration of just how strong of a hold Hannibal had taken in her mind. She tries to justify it as a nightmare rather than reality.]
no subject
Will takes a seat next to Abigail and reaches out for her shoulders so that he can pull her to lean against his chest. At this point she needs to cry it out, and while he wishes that he could shield her from the truth, that would make him no better than Hannibal.]
He promised a lot of things, Abigail. To all of us.
[It's not as if Will hadn't fallen under Hannibal's spell. He'd simply figured it out a little sooner than the rest of them, and that had brought its own share of grief with it. He draws his hands through Abigail's hair, forces himself to be strong on her behalf.]
He's not what we thought he was. He kept you close because he knew that would hurt me the most.
no subject
I'm sorry -- I'm so -- I'm so sorr --
[For letting Hannibal manipulate her, for shoving Alana out the window. For being so weak. She should have seen what was happening, she knew his secret and he knew hers. She should have stayed as far away from him as she could. She should have trusted Will completely from the beginning. She should have--
There's a reason they say hindsight is 20/20. She settles after a few long moments, the hands in her hair helping her focus back on the present rather than the past. It's an effort, but she eventually evens out her breathing, it only hitching sporadically. She's sure this isn't the last of the tears, not once the dreams come and the guilt settles in like an old friend.]
I shouldn't have let him, I should have been stronger. Strong enough to stop my past from repeating itself.
[She finally pulls away, wiping at her face. She takes a moment to look around again, slipping her hand into his to maintain contact - a human connection.]
Where are we?
no subject
As Abigail hiccups and tries to get words out, Will just holds her, one hand sliding up and down her back in what he hopes counts as a comforting gesture. He had never been father material, that much should be obvious with how things turned out, but he has to try.
He's spent the past few months (the time he's thought her dead) thinking back on their last interaction. How crazy he'd felt in that moment. He'd scared Abigail to the point that she'd run away from him, right into Hannibal's open arms. Will blames himself for that, not Abigail. He's the adult here, he should have been able to keep it together -- but then again, he'd also been very sick at the time.
Now they're both here, wherever here is, though he doesn't think he wants to know the answer. At this point, though, Will's already realized that he can't hide from ugly truths, no matter how much he may want to.
When Abigail pulls back, Will easily releases her, though he keeps a tight hold on her hand.]
I don't know. I could hazard a guess, but... [But that's insane, and he's not insane.] We should take a look around. [He stands and gently pulls Abigail up with him.]
no subject
She lets him pull her up, taking a moment to steady herself as she looks at him.]
Are you sure that's a good idea?
[The emptiness of the car in combination with her sudden lack of scars hasn't been lost on her, despite her momentary slip. She looks up and down the train car, hand still in his. She just stares for a long moment at a door at the end of the car, thoughts starting to organize themselves as her clarity slowly returns.]
What's your guess?
[Because she has a few of her own, all seeming more out there than the last.]
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He understands why Abigail might be reluctant to search around when they have no idea what's out here, but they can't stay here forever, either. (Or maybe they can. Maybe that's the point.)
She asks him outright for his opinion of what's going on here, and Will's mouth twists downward as he stares out through the windows at the passing scenery. No matter how hard he looks, though, he can't make out much.
Abigail's a kindred spirit. She'll hear him out.]
Either this is some hallucination and I'm still bleeding out on the floor, or... [He sucks in a breath, lets it out slowly, and finally looks down at Abigail, into her bright eyes.] Or purgatory is a real thing. [For all of Will's conversations with Hannibal about God, he'd never truly believed in anything like an afterlife. His free hand strays down to his stomach again, though, and he finds it as intact as before. There's no other way to explain that.]
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My scars are gone.
[She's not sure if that helps at all with either theory, her free hand drifting up to her returned ear while the other tightens slightly around his. She turns slightly to look at him, her tone flat.]
I think the second one may be closer to whatever this is.
[Perhaps her father's victims had been on this train at some point as well. The thought sends a wave of guilt through her. They would have been alone, probably scared, and she'd help send them there in her place.
She feels her breath start coming a little faster, the grip on his hand loosening. She didn't deserve his comfort - not after everything. She was closer to being a monster than she was before and monsters don't deserve to be loved...]
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It's one thing to be a survivor, to be stronger than the one who abused you and to show them that. That's what he'd tried to tell Margot to do.
But if he's right about this train and where it's going, then they're no longer survivors. Their bodies are growing cold somewhere, and maybe there are a few people mourning them -- if Jack and Alana somehow lived.
It's just the two of them, and so Will frowns when Abigail pulls away from him. All they have is each other, for better or worse, so he doesn't want her to retreat from him.]
I guess we'll see, if this train ever stops. Are you ready to take a look around?
[Will's growing more and more anxious the longer they stand around here. If anyone's sharing this train with them (or conducting it), then he'd rather find them than the other way around. Even now, fear settles insistently in his chest.]
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She just nods, stepping out into the aisle of the compartment. She keeps her head dipped slightly, not meeting his eyes.]
Which way do you want to start?
[A part of her wants to find other people, but there's a quiet whisper at the back of her mind reminding her to be careful what she wishes for. If this truly was a train for the dead, it could get so much worse before it gets better - a punishment for her actions in life.]
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He considers her question, glances up and down the aisle and then shrugs his shoulders.]
Let's move toward the front of the train.
[Unless the train somehow powers itself, there would have to be someone up there. Not that Will knows what to expect. The grim reaper? Hardly. All of this is so surreal, he keeps waiting for the moment when he wakes up.
But he doesn't think it's coming this time.
Quietly, Will grabs for Abigail's hand again and starts to lead her down the aisle to the next train car. He hopes she won't pull away this time.]
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It shouldn't come as a surprise that the next car is empty, some tension leaving her body. She moves slightly in front of him, curious. Her hand stays connected to his, making a point to not pull away again even if that temptation is still there.]
It looks exactly the same. It all looks the same, down to the seats.
[Her eyes drift down to observe the fabric, each seat looking like a carbon copy of the other. It was unnatural and set her a bit more on edge than anything else. It was all so perfect and clean - she didn't like it.]
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He may as well have signed Abigail's death certificate the moment that he showed more than a passing interest in her. It had marked her as a point of weakness for Will, one that Hannibal had been all too willing to exploit.
At Abigail's observation, Will takes a closer look around the area, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he realizes she's right. It's as if they're the first people to ever ride this train, although he doubts that's the case.]
Untouched. Pristine. We can't leave our mark on anything anymore.
[They're ghosts, and that means they're indistinct.]
up to you if Will sees the ghoulie or not :D <3
In through the nose, out through the mouth. In. Out. In... Out...
She doesn't let go of Will's hand, her grip tightening if anything as a few tears slip out. They're dead. Stuck on this train for who knows how long... Maybe forever.
She's about to say something when she hears the door opening behind them, eyes darting to look. She opens her mouth to scream, nothing coming out. For every step her dead father takes forward, she stumbles backwards, dragging Will along with her.]
you bet he's going to 8)
When he spots the tears streaming down her cheeks, Will's plan is to reach out and brush them away. He tries to formulate some words of comfort, anything that might console her, but he doesn't get very far before the sound of the door opening behind them distracts him.
Will glances over his shoulder, but doesn't even have the chance to register what's going on before Abigail's franctically pulling him away.
Garrett Jacob Hobbs. He's haunted Will ever since the day of their encounter, and so at first he's not that surprised to see that face -- not until it sinks in that he's a ghost now too. That may mean Hobbs can do him harm. Or worse, do Abigail harm.
As Will continues to back away, his hand still gripping Abigail's tightly, his free hand reaches for a gun that isn't there. Will would shoot Hobbs ten more times if he got the chance.]
Back off. [His voice comes out stronger than expected.] You don't get to hurt her -- you've already done enough. [He's already done too much.]
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[There's so much about him the FBI doesn't know, still doesn't know -- will never know. She doesn't want to get put into the position of having to choose, knowing he doesn't hold the same power over her. She pulls on Will's hand, moving towards the other door. If they could make it through, they could hopefully keep her father out. She's not going to worry about what else could be waiting for them.
Her free hand fumbles for the door behind her, eyes still on her father as he gets closer and closer. She manages to get the door open just in time, quickly pulling Will through it -- her breath burning in her lungs.]
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Abigail manages to move whereas Will is only dragged, but they make it through the door into the next train car and Will reaches forward to slide the door shut.
He has no idea if they're safe. None of them are actually corporeal at this point, are they? Hobbs might be able to walk right through walls.
Then again, if they're not alive anymore, maybe there's nothing to be scared of. Hobbs can't hurt them. Unfortunately, no amount of logical thinking actually helps to get rid of the fear.
Will catches his breath and turns toward Abigail.] Are you all right?
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When they stop, when the door is finally shut, it starts coming back... Being on a train, these feelings at war within her as she approaches the target - a smile plastered on her face that doesn't reach her eyes. She doesn't respond at first, watching the scene play out before her with sickening detail.
She can feel herself shaking, trying to pry her eyes away from the scene, but it's too hard. Tears stream down her face as breathing becomes more of a challenge.
This wasn't supposed to be her life.]
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So he reaches out to grab her by the crook of either arm and walks her backward until she hits one of the seats in the train car, then eases her down into it.
Will kneels down on the floor next to her and brushes Abigail's hair back so that he can wipe at her tears. He doesn't think he's ever been particularly good at tenderness, except for maybe with his strays -- but Abigail's a stray in her own way, and he's never felt more protective of any human in his life.
He and Hannibal discussed the parental feelings he took on so many times, and now the anger at how it all turned out, at what Hannibal did to Abigail hits him all over again. He has nowhere to put that anger, no one to take it out on except for Abigail herself and he won't do that. So instead Will pulls his hands away from her and clenches both of them into fists which he presses down hard into the carpeted floor of the train.]
Breathe, Abigail. Just breathe. [Even though they're dead and probably don't need to breathe anymore.]
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She listens to his words, trying to find the comfort in them - but it's difficult. Her minds drift to her father telling her to breathe in an effort to calm her as he guided her knife while cleaning the deer, her stomach suddenly knotting up.]
I'm sorry. I'm sor- I'm so sorry.
[Apologizing just seemed to be her gut response, though she wasn't sure what she was apologizing for at this moment... Maybe for lying to Will, trusting the wrong man - playing into Hannibal's hand and letting him manipulate her like her father had before. Maybe it was for the deer, or for the girls she baited.
There was so much to apologize for.
She had no idea who she was anymore and she'd never have a chance to try again - fix things. That alone was worth an apology slipping from her lips. She takes in his anger, the way his fists dig into the carpet, instead reaching out a tentative hand to rest on his left shoulder. She slides it down, gesturing for his hand - a connection. Someone she hadn't hurt as badly as everyone else, though possibly more so in some ways.]
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Though Hannibal had taken it a step further. He'd made him believe that she was dead (and for a time, Will had even though maybe he'd killed her) and let him live in that lie. Will had accepted it and grieved for her, when the entire time Abigail had been right there, right under Hannibal's thumb.
Will swallows hard, and he thinks that if it weren't for the fact that he's already dead (his guts spilled out on the floor somewhere a world away) he'd be choking on bile. If only he had searched harder, maybe he would have found her and saved her before it turned into this. He's not much of a father when he didn't even think to search for a girl whose body had never been found.
When Abigail reaches down for his hand, Will forces himself to return the gesture. Abigail's palm is ice cold, but Will imagines he feels the same way to her. It makes sense, when both of them bled out.
He hears a movement from the other side of the train car and immediately jumps to his feet. Standing there in a stained white dress is Marissa Schurr. Even though her feet are solidly on the ground, her arms hang up at either side as if she's a marionette being controlled by invisible strings -- or as if she's still suspended on those antlers.
With Hobbs behind them and Marissa in front of them, there's nowhere to go.]
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Something settled that deep was hard to shake, even now with the knowledge of what Hannibal had done to them - how far he'd truly been willing to go. She doesn't pay any attention to the chill of his own hands, too focused on attempting to keep herself functional despite the how quickly everything was coming undone.
Though whatever she might have done in the moments before a scream slipped out didn't matter. She gasps for breaths that aren't coming as she watches the unnatural movements of what had once been her best friend. Her eyes dart behind her at the rattling of the door to the train car, flying out of the seat in response.
She didn't know which was worse, the man who'd pulled her own puppet strings for so long, got her to be a part of something horrible and unforgivable or the girl who'd been a friend to her at the wrong time.
She shakily steps out into the aisle, tears continuing to flow as she slowly moves towards what she deems the lesser of two evils. Her hand brushes at her forehead, almost expecting to find blood there like before. She knows she should stay by Will, but if this was an atonement for her sins, a chance to try and make things right - she couldn't hide from it forever.]
Ma-Marissa...? Can you hear me? Please...
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As much as he would rather shove Abigail behind him and handle this for her, he instinctively knows that he can't do that. Marissa was her friend, someone who died in part because of her (not that she should blame herself, not ever), and that means that she has to be the one to overcome this.
Even so, Will stands at her side, his fingers still intertwined with hers.
His expression cracks with fear as he watches the dead girl jerk forward. Her shoulders twist and roll and her head lolls to the side as she takes one step, then another, then another, closing the distance between them slowly but surely. Her dark hair hangs in front of her face and masks most of it, but once she gets within a few feet of them, her neck snaps back and reveals her blank expression.
Blood starts to gush out of the puncture wounds in her body and spills all over the floor. While a voice rings out, her mouth doesn't actually move.]
You should have died, instead of me. You died anyway, didn't you? So why did I have to, Abigail? Why?
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