Murderous!Hannibal for stealinhislines and thankyoumrstark
If there was one thing to be said of prison, it was that it gave you plenty of time to think.
A lot of people would avoid that, but Hannibal Smith relished it. He spent his days obsessively reliving the moments that led to his being confined in this tiny room. So much had been lost, stripped away from him. His freedom, his reputation, even his sense of self. Colonel wasn't his rank, it was who he was. And the government had tried to take that from him.
He had to get it back. Not just for himself, but for his team, his boys, those too-loyal, stubborn fools that wouldn't let him take the brunt of the punishment. He'd failed them, and he had to make it up to them.
It was two months into his stay before a niggling suspicion started to grow. He should have thought of it sooner, but it was inconceivable. It should have been inconceivable. But it was the only thing that fit.
His blood ran cold. In the midst of turning a page, he froze. He'd taken to reading in his cot to disguise his planning sessions, though until this moment he hadn't had much to plan. Now, as things fell into place, he knew what he'd have to do.
Brock Pike wasn't smart enough to double cross the CIA. He was, however, stupid enough to try. It just meant someone was helping him.
Only five people had known exactly what the team had been planning. Only those five had known when and where they'd be returning with the plates. Only one wasn't now in prison.
No, Hannibal told himself behind closed eyes. No. Russ was murdered. He couldn't...
The general hadn't wanted his team on this mission. He'd known. And he couldn't have known if he hadn't had a hand in it. Otherwise, how could he have let it go on?
There was a loud bang as the book collided with the far wall. Rage the like of which Hannibal had never felt boiled inside of him. He'd been angry enough at the court-martial, at the debasement of justice that would allow innocent men to be wrongfully punished. But now, now, suspecting whose hand had placed them there...
That rage didn't leave him. He let it burn coldly, channeled it into productivity. Even imprisoned, he had his sources of intel. He found everything he could on Pike's whereabouts and activities, and especially on his companions. He kept up to date on his boys. He worked on plans for getting them out, once he was out himself. These plans shifted constantly as the situations changed. And most of all, he waited. Waited for the other player to join the game. Waited for Lynch.
Lynch, and that subtle confirmation that his suspicions were right.
He was calm. He was patient. He kept his thoughts to himself, not even revealing them to the team when they were reunited. They couldn't control their anger. Not like he could. He needed them focused.
That didn't stop him from feeling a moment of savage glee as he shoved the man out of the window of the Konnigsbank Tower. It didn't stop a pernicious little hope that maybe, just maybe, the parachute would malfunction.
And, later, with his gun to his former best friend's head... It would be so easy to tweak the trigger. Make him pay for what he'd done. No one would blame him. He had orders.
And he stared into Russ's eyes and made his decision.
A lot of people would avoid that, but Hannibal Smith relished it. He spent his days obsessively reliving the moments that led to his being confined in this tiny room. So much had been lost, stripped away from him. His freedom, his reputation, even his sense of self. Colonel wasn't his rank, it was who he was. And the government had tried to take that from him.
He had to get it back. Not just for himself, but for his team, his boys, those too-loyal, stubborn fools that wouldn't let him take the brunt of the punishment. He'd failed them, and he had to make it up to them.
It was two months into his stay before a niggling suspicion started to grow. He should have thought of it sooner, but it was inconceivable. It should have been inconceivable. But it was the only thing that fit.
His blood ran cold. In the midst of turning a page, he froze. He'd taken to reading in his cot to disguise his planning sessions, though until this moment he hadn't had much to plan. Now, as things fell into place, he knew what he'd have to do.
Brock Pike wasn't smart enough to double cross the CIA. He was, however, stupid enough to try. It just meant someone was helping him.
Only five people had known exactly what the team had been planning. Only those five had known when and where they'd be returning with the plates. Only one wasn't now in prison.
No, Hannibal told himself behind closed eyes. No. Russ was murdered. He couldn't...
The general hadn't wanted his team on this mission. He'd known. And he couldn't have known if he hadn't had a hand in it. Otherwise, how could he have let it go on?
There was a loud bang as the book collided with the far wall. Rage the like of which Hannibal had never felt boiled inside of him. He'd been angry enough at the court-martial, at the debasement of justice that would allow innocent men to be wrongfully punished. But now, now, suspecting whose hand had placed them there...
That rage didn't leave him. He let it burn coldly, channeled it into productivity. Even imprisoned, he had his sources of intel. He found everything he could on Pike's whereabouts and activities, and especially on his companions. He kept up to date on his boys. He worked on plans for getting them out, once he was out himself. These plans shifted constantly as the situations changed. And most of all, he waited. Waited for the other player to join the game. Waited for Lynch.
Lynch, and that subtle confirmation that his suspicions were right.
He was calm. He was patient. He kept his thoughts to himself, not even revealing them to the team when they were reunited. They couldn't control their anger. Not like he could. He needed them focused.
That didn't stop him from feeling a moment of savage glee as he shoved the man out of the window of the Konnigsbank Tower. It didn't stop a pernicious little hope that maybe, just maybe, the parachute would malfunction.
And, later, with his gun to his former best friend's head... It would be so easy to tweak the trigger. Make him pay for what he'd done. No one would blame him. He had orders.
And he stared into Russ's eyes and made his decision.