The Universe's Mixer

Hannibal had no interest in what he found in the little box he'd been given at the ball. Once he saw what was inside, he burned the piece of origami paper and the instructions. Not only was Hannibal not the sort to put stock in foolish things like wishes, but he was also quite aware of what the City's idea of a gift was. He wanted no part in it. He supposed if he were a different person, there were wishes he could have made. Another with his history might have seen dozens of things that could be wished for. Hannibal never even gave these things a moment of thought.

It was curious, however, that the City should be doing something such as this. Perhaps it saw the brutality that he and Baba had gone after the asylum employees with and had decided to try to appease the others so that they wouldn't follow suit. Could it possibly be afraid of the two of them? Logically, there was every reason to be afraid. Hannibal might not have special powers, but Baba Yaga certainly did, and she didn't seem to be opposed to using them against the City. In fact, she seemed to be gearing up to do something fairly drastic. A thing he had read in her eyes and actions when they'd spent the evening together destroying the bodies of the two who had worked at Arkham.

Something he would discuss with her later. He had no doubt that they would have another meeting, and somebody else would die.

Today was not that day, however. Today was another work day for him, and he was on his way to the Hospital. He always walked. It got him out of the indoors and kept him in shape, not to mention it gave him a longer period of time in which he could peruse his mind for the events that had recently occurred and give them some thought.

It wasn't that he didn't see the girl. It was that she didn't see him. There was nothing he could do to avoid the impact of her crashing into him. Instead, he just steadied her with his hands on her shoulders.

Never one to forget a face, Hannibal smiled.

"Bella. It's been quite a while. I hope you are well."

Sweeney was sore.

Not the kind of sore after a grand night on the town or from a cheerful romp No, this was the sort of sore that told him that he hadn't slept in his bed last night. The sort of sore that indicated he was waking up on a park bench that was far too short for his long frame. ( He came to that conclusion when he realized that he was on his back and that his legs were partially dangling off the plank he was laying upon. )