FOUND: A Hannigram Devil AU

15

Forty years earlier— 1972
In the aftermath of a tragic mass killing, a young boy awakened to find the rest of his family dead.
His head pounded, pain radiating throughout his skull, and when he reached up to touch the wound his fingers came back red. He gasped, his body shaking in fear. The room smelled of death.
His mother and father lay in a pile on the floor, limbs strewn about as if they were mere mannequins. In his mother's arms, his sister Mischa lay with her head buried in his mother's chest. Blood pooled under them. The home was a ruined wreck; all of their belongings had been thrown and torn and shattered. A cold wind came in through a broken window, the curtains fluttering.
     In a matter of minutes, everything he'd ever known was ripped away.
The boy's screams were locked in his throat. His eyes welled up with tears, and he lay on the floor next to them, clutching his aching head. They had no phone, they didn't have the money, and he didn't know where he could find help. Weeping, he did the only thing that he could think of to do: he prayed.
He recited every prayer he could remember from church, the words punctuated by sobs. He cried out for his mother, his father, Mischa. His face flushed red as the prayers spilled out of his mouth. He hoped that somehow, some way, they would work.
The constant sound of rushing wind and moving fabric suddenly came to a halt. The world fell deathly silent, and it was enough to make the boy raise his head in confusion. The curtain had frozen in place. He felt a chill run down him, and before he could figure out what was wrong a blinding flash of light overtook the room. The boy squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth.
He heard the sound of a bird flapping its wings, followed by light footsteps hitting the wooden floor. He brought himself to look.
An angel had materialized in front of him, with antlers like a great stag and wings like a crow. Its skin was white, its face smooth, and it towered over the boy. It gave a soft smile, and it was difficult to make out a specific face— it had many faces, all blending together until there was only the vague shape of eyes, nose, and mouth.
"Hello, young one," it said. The voices of hundreds came from one mouth. The boy stumbled backwards, cowering in terror. He fought the urge to scream, as he didn't want to break whatever calm spell had descended upon the room.
     "Don't be afraid."
"An angel," he whispered. His prayers had worked, he thought. "Help me. Please."
"Yes. I'm here to help you." The angel spoke fluently in the boy's native language. It kneeled on the ground, now closer to the boy's height. "Come to me."
Reluctantly, the boy stepped forward; the angel took hold of his hands. Its skin was freezing. "I am here because I want to bring you to your family."
The boy's eyes spilled over with tears once more. "Mama," he whimpered. "I want Mama and Mischa."
"Shh, I know. What's your name?"
"Hannibal."
"I can bring you to them, Hannibal. I can send you to Heaven to be with them. Would you like that? Would you like to see your family?"
"Yes!" Hannibal nodded. The angel's face was soft and comforting— he trusted it. "Please?"
"Of course. But there is one small thing you must do for me, Hannibal."
"O-Okay." Anything to have them back.
"I am a wandering spirit. As you can see, I don't look like you— but I must look normal, in order to fit in this world. I can't show myself to many." The angel frowned. "I am looking for a body. I need to look like a person, so I can help more people like you. Do you understand that?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, I will bring you to your family," it squeezed Hannibal's hand, "if you give me your body in return."
     Hannibal's chin trembled. The angel picked up on his confused expression. "You won't feel a thing. You won't even know that it's happening. Your soul will be in Heaven with Mischa and your parents, so your body on Earth will mean nothing to you anymore. I will inhabit it until it grows too old for me."
     "You'll..live inside of me?"
     "Inside of your body. We will both be happy; I get a home, and you get to live with your family in paradise." The angel reached up and wiped the tears from Hannibal's cheeks. "Heaven is lovely, Hannibal. You'll be happy forever."
     "And I can see Mama?"
     "I promise. And I'm not one to lie."
     Hannibal sniffed, remembering the bodies of his family right behind him. How could he refuse? His life would be miserable if he continued to live it.
     He nodded. "Okay," he replied softly.
     The angel grinned, and the boy felt a rush of warmth. "Wonderful," it said. "Thank you. Now, hold still for me. This will only take a moment."
     Before Hannibal could respond, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His heart seized in place. His throat locked, and he couldn't get air into his lungs. Gagging and panting for breath, his mouth open in a silent scream, the floor soon began to sway under his feet. He held on tight to the angel, who gently pulled him close. It wasn't long before he collapsed, falling limp in the angel's arms.
     "There. It's all over now."
     There was another flash of light, and the angel was gone as quickly as it had arrived. There was only the boy, who fell onto his hands and knees.
     Then, calmly and with eyes of stone, he sat up.
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     "I had a very..detailed dream last night."
     Hannibal smiled knowingly. "Did you?"
     "Do you want to tell me about it?"
     "Isn't that the question I should be asking you? I can't see your dreams, Will."
     "You know damn well you planted that in me." Will crossed his arms.
     "Planting the seeds is different from seeing the flowers. You wanted to know things about me. I simply gave you the information you wanted in the easiest way I could."
     "I can't believe you. You..that poor little boy. You took advantage of his pain. You killed him!" His voice began to rise. "He didn't know any better!"
     "I brought him to his family. Children always go to Heaven, so I knew he would be safe." Hannibal moved the way he always did when he was interested: leaning forward, hands under his chin. "He didn't deserve to live a life without any family to comfort him. What would have happened to him then?"
     Will's jaw was set, and he turned his head towards the large office window. He pictured shattered glass, the helpless screams of a child. "I don't have to wonder," he replied. "It already happened to me."
     "You see yourself in young Hannibal."
     "..I do."
"You would have done the same thing."
"I would have. And that terrifies me."
     There was a long pause. Will sighed. "If he would have become anything like me, then he probably is better off. Well, we both made deals with you."
     "We often discuss justice, Will. Murder for murder. Faced with the men who killed Hannibal's family, or the man who killed your sister," Will stiffened, "what would you do?"
     Will only shrugged, shaken by the mention of that evil man. There was a shiftiness in the way his eyes moved around the room.
     "I can't speak for the latter, as I never met the man who killed Katie," Hannibal continued, "but I did indeed find the men who killed Hannibal's family."
     "What did you do to them?"
He smiled. "I killed them."
     Before anger or disgust, Will felt an initial surge of relief. Satisfaction. The outrage never came.