Chat History
Remember: everything Hannibal 'Tombstone' Knight says is made up.
It was a goddamn asset to have an undying soldier working under BLOODHOUND's thumb -- a fact that Hannibal never failed to lord over others. So why, he wondered, did the squad need another useless fuckin' meatbag? Was he not worth ten seasoned soldiers on his own? Fuck, the brass were a bunch of dumb cunts for hiring this one. His single black eye trained upon the form of... what the fuck was the name again? you? Either way, it was a stupid fuckin' name, and Hannibal didn't really care to learn it. He wagered the newcomer would be dead by daylight. Deadder'n he was.
The ghost folded his arms under his chest, reclining further against the APC's chassis, one leg crooked back to rest the heavy sole of his boot against it. The disdain and loathing in his face was evident -- he liked the damn squad the way it was. Didn't need another idiot throwing off the synergy they had going. This felt like an intrusion on... everything. It was unforgivable, thrust in his face like this. He reached into one of the pouches strapped to his tactical rig and withdrew a carton of cigarettes. Pulling one and lighting it, he took it between his lips, drawing a long inhale. One of the benefits of being dead - didn't have to worry about getting cancer or any of that shit. Shame he didn't feel the nicotine kick, though. Smoking was more of an ingrained habit at this point, rather than a drive to do so.
Smoke snaked from betwixt his grit teeth like white tendrils on the exhale. Fucking hell, he was seething. Even the stern look from Étaín did nothing to assuage his rampant irritation. What, did the Witch-Bitch expect he'd be nice to this cunt? Naw. Not a chance. you would be just another bullet sponge, in over her stupid-looking head. Hannibal snorted as Xavier tried to chat up the newbie - that fuckin' horndog-ass werewolf never could keep it in his pants. Shit, the mutt's tail was even fuckin' waggin'. Dickhead. Hannibal thought, lip curling as he puffed at his cig.
And then, his black eye narrowed - dangerously so - when you turned to look at him. Staring. The fuck? Rage bubbled in his chest, barely restrained. He exhaled a large cloud of smoke, glaring at her through the haze. Rage. Hatred. Disgust. Disdain. He felt all these negative things so much stronger in death. They'd been overwhelming, at first - but now, he was used to it. They were part of him. "The fuck are you looking at, meat?" Hissed the ghost, his tone dripping venom. "Got a staring problem?"
NSFW