Pairing: Hannibal/Will
Rating: T for poorly described gore
Word count: 2K+ (fic total: 7K+)
Summary: Will is a human with unheard of empathic abilities. Hannibal is a Betazoid whose telepathy is stunted due to childhood trauma. It works, somehow. Or Hannigram--in SPACE!!

A fusion between NBC's Hannibal and Star Trek (Prime universe, late-TNG/early-DS9-era). Posted as chapters for now, but will maybe be compiled into a longer one-shot later.

[Read on AO3]


Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3



--Tattlecrime, Star Date 48313.7--

Never heard of Teyljar VI? Most of the galaxy is right there with you. Teyljar is a small binary system boasting three M-class planets, hidden away between Altair and Vega, and barely noticed by either of the two. It was colonized in the early days of the Federation and was largely forgotten by the main body of the Federation government shortly thereafter. The terrain of the three planets is widely varied--Teyljar V is as almost as hot and dry as Vulcan, Teyljar VII is nearly as frigid as the Breen homeworld and is covered with a solid layer of ice. Teyljar VI is hot like Teyljar V and wet like Teyljar VII--due to its swamp-like environment, the locals apparently nicknamed it “New Orleans II,” after an Earth city with a similar climate. The population of Teyljar V, VI, and VII consists almost entirely of humans and is known to be extremely insular, with very few cases emigration or immigration occurring.

One of those cases of emigration was Special Agent Will Graham, the newest scent hound on FBII Director Jack Crawford’s team of forensic specialists. Graham is reliably at the scene of every seemingly unsolvable Federation crime, but this reporter questions whether he is there as an investigator--or as a perpetrator.

--

Will looked out into the sea of stars and wondered about studying their movements, their light, their power. Maybe, in another life, that’s what he did. Maybe he traced patterns into the night sky, told stories of their heroes and their tragedies. Maybe he collected samples and extrapolated their origins and their futures from their present.

Maybe he did anything other than what he was doing now.

“I understand your concern, Director,” the captain was saying to Jack. “But there’s really no need for any further investigation. As you can see, this is an open and shut kind of case.”

Jack should technically be referred to as “Agent,” but ‘Fleet officers couldn’t seem to wrap their heads around the comparatively informal ranking system. Their gazes passed over the team with barely disguised contempt, lingering on their clothes--the Federation Bureau of Interplanetary Investigations was one of the few organizations in the Federation that didn’t have mandatory uniforms--and refocused on Jack as the only one worth speaking to.

Not that Will minded. The fewer people he had to talk to, the better.

“My sources suggest otherwise,” Jack replied to the captain, whose demeaning smile grew strained.

Will was bad at handling people--living ones, anyway--but at least he was in good company.

Dr. Bloom stepped forward from where she had been standing between Will and Agent Katz, ready, as always, to calm the brewing argument. “We don’t doubt your judgment, captain,” she said gently. “With the sheer loss of life in this situation, there are several procedures we are obligated to run through. It’s just a matter of bureaucracy at this point.”

A lie. But Jack didn’t argue, and the captain’s shoulders slowly relaxed. “Very well. I’ve put together a security team to accompany you onto the vessel. You’ll be beaming aboard, I understand? You’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to shuttle over?”

“The transporter will be fine. Thank you, captain.” Dr. Bloom smiled at them both, and the tension seemed to flee the room.

Some telepaths could do that, with training. Sense the air in the room, know exactly how to negotiate the feelings of those around them to smooth the conversation, avoid the fight.

Not Will. Every addition he made to the tone of a disagreement made the situation exponentially worse.

The captain led them out of the debriefing room, and Will allowed himself one more glance at the stars outside.

--

They made an unusual group, all told. This was especially true now, with Dr. Bloom and the security team from the USS Trailblazer tagging along.

The clothing of the FBII analysts was eclectic--suits ranging from somberly professional (Jack) to tastefully professional (Dr. Bloom) to cutting edge professionalism (Katz, Zeller) to five-years-out-of-date professionalism (Price) to chewed-on-by-dog unprofessional (Will). The three ‘Fleet officers looked austere next to them, with their black and gold uniforms sharp and stiff as they strode down the corridors leading to the transporter room.

Will squinted at the security team, wondering not for the first time what had inspired Starfleet to change their security uniform colors from red to gold. Although, Will thought cynically as the transporter chief prepared to load their patterns into the buffer, given the design of the killer they hunted, these security officers would likely find their uniforms reversed back to red before they returned to their ship.

--

“What do you see?” Jack asked Will.

Main engineering on the USS Zephyr was coated in blood, with bodies scattered across the deck. The warp core was still active, casting a dim glow throughout the room and highlighting the gore dripping from every surface.

Jack wasn’t asking about any of that, though. Jack wasn’t asking about what everyone could see; he was asking what Will could see.

Will was standing motionless in the center of the room, the soles of his boots submerged in blood, eyes closed. He could feel the security team on loan from the Trailblazer picking their way around the perimeter of the room, radiating disgust at the macabre scene, at Will for being so immersed in it. The other members of Jack’s team were ignoring him, minds focused instead on collecting their own samples. Dr. Bloom was standing near Jack, watching Will with concern.

But that was now.

In the dark of Will’s mind, a glowing pendulum stood waiting. He imagined letting it drop. He imagined it cutting through the time separating him from what he needed to see.

Forty-three hours ago, the crew of the Zephyr had been alive and unified in confusion, fear, panic, no, that was impossible, the systems had been working perfectly, we just finished running the diagnostic--secondary systems--some kind of virus--trying to shut down the affected data banks--pain, screaming, panic, pain--

“Will? What do you see?”

“Not then,” Will gasped. “Further, I need--”

He reached out with his mind, shoved the pendulum back into motion, let it carry him deeper into the past.

Sixty-seven hours ago, the Zephyr had been en route to a rendezvous point at Starbase 310. The emotions of the crew whirled around him--fear at coming so near the Cardassian demilitarized zone, sorrow over news of deaths from a recent Maquis attack, laughter over a joke at a green ensign’s expense--and for a moment, there was the familiar sensation of drowning, the emotions so thick and directionless that they carried him away like a current.

“Will?”

No, not here, not now--

Ninety-one hours ago, the Zephyr was in orbit around Tellar, receiving a shipment of supplies. The ship was buzzing with people, irritation, cultural misunderstandings, trade disputes, the need to change--

Change what?

“He can’t hear us, Jack. Do you even understand the harm you’re causing him, every time you ask him to do this?”

“He knows the risks.”

“It’s for his Becoming!” Will screamed, trying to drown out the voices, the feelings, all clamoring for attention in his mind. The effort knocked his breathing out of sync, and he choked on air. Hands grabbed him and held him upright as he collapsed, shaking.

Jack’s voice floated into his ears, calm, but impatient for answers. “Will? Do you know where you are?”

Where was easy. “Zephyr,” he reported, voice hoarse.

Dr. Bloom spoke, then, from somewhere to his right, fear humming around her. “That’s right. Do you know who you are?”

That one was always the harder question. He forced his breathing to slow, tried to clear his mind, block out the other that was calling to him. “Will Graham. My name is Will Graham, and I am on the Zephyr. It’s Star Date 48327.8.”

He pushed himself upright, and the hands supporting him dropped away. He opened his eyes.

Jack and Dr. Bloom were both looking at him, waiting.

“It’s for his Becoming,” Will said again, more softly. “He’s trying to change, to transform. He planted the virus in the secondary life support systems.”

“Who did, Will?” asked Dr. Bloom. He could feel her mind probing his, searching for signs of sickness. He slammed his mind shut, furious.

“The Dragon,” he snapped, barely aware of what he was saying.

Derision bubbled up from all around him. He felt himself flush in mortification, but when he searched his mind, the answer remained the same. Or almost the same. “At least, that’s what he’s trying to Become. The Dragon.”

They stared at him, uncomprehending, but he knew that he was right, that this was the lead they had been looking for.

“The Red Dragon,” he added thoughtfully, a distant memory flaring. “Do you know any mythology revolving around a red dragon?”

--

Dr. Alana Bloom--a licensed psychiatrist with years of experience serving as a counselor aboard Starfleet vessels--had joined their team of FBII analysts only recently, after a flurry of media attention surrounding Will had caused certain members of the government to firmly recommend that Jack find someone who could keep Will in hand. Make sure that he didn’t become the kind of crazy they were paid to hunt.

Dr. Bloom treated Jack with respect, but she was fierce and unbending when she felt he was overstepping his ethical boundaries in the pursuit of a killer. She was friendly with Agents Katz, Zeller, and Price, showing admiration for their skills and no sign of disdain for their lack of standard dress.

She was even friendly with Will, making it clear that she wanted their relationship to be as unsullied by politics as possible.

“I’m only here as a stop gap,” she told him in the beginning. “No one is saying you can’t handle this, but the work you do, the way you’re able to sink into the past, that’s extremely dangerous for you and for your health. I’m just here as a protective measure, to be your crutch if you ever find yourself needing someone to lean on.”

It was a nice thought, but no gentle sentiments could erase the reality of the mandatory weekly sessions he had to schedule with her, or the reports she would write and send off to some nameless bureaucrat who would weigh her words against a manual of mental disorders in order to judge his fieldwork performance. In order to judge his sanity.

With that taken into account, nothing could ease their interactions. Will responded to Dr. Bloom with all the displeasure anyone would show when faced with a living collar.

The fact that Dr. Bloom was a Betazoid, one of those species famed for their telepathic and empathic prowess, simply made everything worse.

“It looks like Will was right about the method,” Katz said. Jack had commandeered a small debriefing room on the Trailblazer to hold this meeting, but Will sensed that they were quickly overstaying their welcome, orders or no. Katz pressed a few buttons on the wall panel to display a scrolling block of code on the screen embedded into the wall. Dr. Bloom looked at the code politely but uncomprehendingly; Jack outright ignored it. “We found evidence of a virus planted in the secondary life support systems, as he said. It was programmed to activate during the switch from primary to secondary systems during the routine in-flight maintenance.”

At a nod from Katz, Price took over the report. “Once activated, the virus took control of the systems, barricaded the decks, locked out manual overrides, and started depressurizing the ship, deck-by-deck.” He fiddled with the controls until the code was replaced by a schematic of the Zephyr, the lines mapping the ship growing progressively dim as it displayed the two-dimensional path of the virus as it traveled from the bridge to engineering, decimating the life on every deck in between.

Jack was as dismissive of the ship schematic as he had been of the code. His eyes never left the speakers’ faces. “And then?” he asked, as though waiting for a punchline.

The team traded glances, seemingly confused at the need for further clarification. “And then, given the absence of air pressure,” Zeller volunteered, “everyone on the ship exploded. Basically. Insides-on-the-outside became the new fashion statement of choice.”

And people thought Will was the unstable one. Though, judging by the distaste Will could sense radiating from Dr. Bloom, she wasn’t impressed by Zeller’s turn of phrase.

“I see,” said Jack. Will wondered if he really did. If he could comprehend the agony, the horror, of the past, or if he could only see the see the gruesomeness of the present. “And the… ‘Red Dragon’?”

The agents’ gazes became fixed as they made a concentrated effort not to look at Will. He appreciated it.

“There’s an ancient Terran religion that identifies an incarnation of evil as being a ‘great red dragon,’” Katz volunteered hesitantly. “It was part of prophecies describing the destruction of the planet. A painter from 19th century Earth made a series of paintings depicting scenes of it.” There was a pause. Katz cleared her throat. “A red dragon also appears on the ancient Welsh flag.”

When Katz didn’t seem to be forthcoming with any additional information, Jack glanced between Price and Zeller, as though expecting more.

Price shrugged. “There are some mentions of dragons across Terran cultures of all colors and descriptions. There are also a number of red dragon-like creatures native to other worlds in the Federation. None of them seem to have any connection with the manner of ritual mass slaughter that we’ve observed in these Tooth Fairy murders, though.”

“In other words,” Zeller drawled, “no. No leads on any red dragons.”

Jack sighed and massaged his temples.

Dr. Bloom was frowning at Katz thoughtfully. “Those paintings you mentioned,” she said. “The ones of this evil incarnate. Did you find any images of them?”

Katz shook her head. “Not in the Federation database. It seems that the originals were destroyed centuries ago. There are probably still copies floating around, but I wouldn’t even know where to look.”

“That’s the thing,” said Dr. Bloom, “I think I would.”

Everyone in the room turned to stare at her, even Jack.

“My old mentor, he has a thing for art. He has paintings from, oh, all over the known galaxy. I could swear that I saw something like what you’re describing in his collection. This ‘dragon,’ it’s some kind of giant monster with wings, isn’t it? I think I remember a painting like that, a red monster with its tail winding around a golden woman…”

Katz’s mouth dropped open. “You’re right, that sounds just like the text description of one of the paintings. Uh, it says here, The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun? Or maybe with the sun; I’m a little confused by the different wording used.”

Will felt a shiver of excitement at the title. It sounded strong. It sounded like power.

“Yes, that’s it!” Dr. Bloom smiled at Katz. “I guess my memory isn’t so bad after all.” She turned to Jack. “I don’t know if this is a lead you want to follow up on, but I can contact my mentor and ask him if we could drop by, if you like. He’s settled back on Betazed, now. That’s not even a full day from here, even if we take a transport shuttle.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the polished metal surface of the table. “Will?” he asked.

Will stared down at the table. “I won’t know without seeing the paintings, if then. But it feels… right. It feels important.”

Jack nodded. “Katz, Zeller, Price,” he said, “You three stay on Starbase 310; we’ll have the Zephyr towed in closer so that you can beam aboard directly from the transporters on base. Keep searching for other clues. Dr. Bloom, Will, and I will have the Trailblazer take us as far as Starbase 211; they were supposed to be heading out there anyway. We can take a shuttle from there to Betazed, and be there tomorrow morning. Any questions?” To the resulting silence, Jack barked, “Good. Dismissed.”

As they all filed out of the room, Will watched Dr. Bloom and wondered what kind of ship’s counselor could afford to collect ancient works of art from across the galaxy.

Not one he would like. That, at least, was certain.

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