#michael intro

[wildsecuritywolf]

Michael is my emotionally support human-- and uncle Sebby is just a himbo bsbshshs XD

Sebastian: “Hey!”

Michael: *blushes* “..I...I’m glad that you really like me a lot, sir. I...I hope that I can do what I can to..to..to make ya feel better”

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +puttinghimdown ]

    Pointless social events were one of the main pastimes that only the     elite seemed to enjoy.  They masqueraded under the guise of galas     and fundraisers, but really they were just a place for people to flaunt     their expensive new finery.  Michael  knew  this  well,  but he couldn't     resist indulging.  He'd bought  a  brand  new  three-piece suit for the     occasion, a gray  ensemble  with  a  red  windowpane pattern and a     matching tie.  He  was  rather  proud  to show it off;  it'd been a while     since  he'd  had the opportunity to wear a nice suit,  considering  the     obscene amount of sneaking and crawling required in his particular     brand of invasive, inconsiderate journalism.  As such, he was damn     well grinning from ear to ear—he thought he looked stunning.

    And maybe,  to  a  degree,  he  could  have  been.  But  ugly thoughts     have a bad  habit of infecting the air around somebody,  and thus he     gave  off  the  vibe of a man quite unpleasant.  But he still flirted,  still     smiled,  and he still seemed to be hitting it off well with other atten—     —dees.  In his opinion,  anyways.  He had a habit of  "forgetting"  the     uncomfortable  glances  and  the sneers behind his  back.  He  was     better  than  everyone  here,   so   why  drag  himself  down  with  the     opinions of the rabble?

    He   couldn't   even   be   bothered   with   the   rabble's   reasons  for     attending. That is to say,  he couldn't remember what this little event     was for anymore.  Something about starving children,  probably.  Or     maybe  art  programs.  Fuck  if  he  knew.  He  was  only  there to sip     champagne and look good,  maybe  drop  a  few thousands into the     donation pool just to  get  polite  applause.  Someone,  somewhere     was playing the violin,  and  he  decided  he  didn't  like it.  Classical     music was boring as hell.  Why  couldn't  they play something a little     more exciting?

    Speaking of exciting,  were those the Vergers?  Michael's eyes were     sharp,  following lines  of  current  and  past  stories  to the polished      shoes of the  "Pig  Prince,"  as  he  liked  to  call  him,  and his sister.     He'd never met the Vergers before. He only knew them by reputation,      and what a reputation it  was.  Michael  had  always wondered about     having a chat with them. Sometimes,  even the idea of civil discus—     —sion without prying  for  a  story  crossed  his  mind.  They were an     interesting pair, the Vergers, and he could do with a few friends.

    But he didn't want to talk to Mason first.  Fuck no. He knew quite a bit     about the man just from reading snippets of articles about him,  and     thus he wasn't as interesting an item. But his sister?  He didn't know     shit about her. She would be a good story as well as a good woman     to chat with.  Her good  looks  didn't hurt,  either.  So Michael kept his     fingers curled  around  his  champagne  glass  and  waited,  the foot     tapping  and  brows  furrowed   kind  of  impatient,  until  Mason  and     Margot wandered away from  one  another.  And then he was across     the floor immediately,  and he only narrowly avoided bumping in to a     server as he strolled up to stop in front of her. This was, he suppo—     —sed, a bit of a  direct  approach.  But  he  was  a  direct sort of man,     and he wasn't going to play coy and beat around the bush just to get     a fucking conversation. She was, after all, just a woman.

+ ——                    ❝ Are you Margot Verger? ❞

    He might have gotten a little too excited,  and his broad smile hurt his     face a little.  So  he  relaxed,  sticking out his hand and trying to play it     off. He'd already  established  the  implication  that  he wasn't sure of       her identity;  he  wanted  her  to  think  him  friendly,  rather  than nosy.      "Sorry,  I—"  His  eyes  flitted  elsewhere.  Mock nervousness,  as he     stuck out his hand.  "—I just wanted to introduce myself."  A lie.  He     wanted to converse, and maybe gauge her personality.  It would be a     fun  pastime  compared  to  flirting  with  the  nobodies.  "My name is     Michael Insetto. A pleasure to meet you."

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +bettercriminal ]

    Michael hated England. He hated it like he hated taxes, or whiny poor     people,  or  shitty  coffee.  To  him,  England  was  a  nuisance that he     cared not for,  and a well of bad memories he preferred to avoid.  The     last time he'd been  there  was  on  vacation  with  his family as a boy,     and he'd got punched in the  face  by  a  thuggish  little shit who didn't      like his accent.

    And yet here he was.  In England.  Scowling at a cup of tea he'd got at     this  awful  cafe  and  wondering  why  in  the  hell  anyone  enjoyed  it.     "Fucking leaf water," he  grumbled,  picking  up the cup and taking a     small  sip.   His  nose   wrinkled   in   disgust.   "Definitely,   definitely     fucking leaf water."  The cup met  the  table again.  Gray eyes turned     to  scan  the  street,  waiting   almost   impatiently   for  his  reason  for     visiting—an old friend  from  his  time  at  Goldman  Sachs had invited     him up  for  his  wife's  birthday,  because  she  had  decided  that she     wanted to 'meet more Americans'.  He  blamed no one but himself for     falling for it—his friend had  put  her  on  the  phone,  and she'd sweet     talked him in to flying up, but that didn't make him any less agitated.

    He could hear too many variations of the  same stupid fucking accent,     and it was driving him nuts.  How could anyone find this shit attractive,     or posh,  or whatever the hell it was that Americans fetishized it to be?     It  all sounded like no one  knew how to fucking  talk.  Funny he'd think     that,  when he sported  a  Brooklyn  accent  thicker  than the leather of      his belt. Hypocritical as always.

    Impatient as always,  too.  "It's  been  five  fucking minutes and he's     still not here."  The journalist let out a loud groan.  Then, pushing the     cup away from him,  he  rose  to his  feet  and  elected to examine his     surroundings.  There  were  young   couples  nuzzling  each  other  at     booths, bearded  men  leeching  off  WiFi,  teenagers talking loudly in     slang that he couldn't  understand—all  of it annoying.  He couldn't sit     there another goddamn minute,  or else he'd  likely  explode and start     flipping tables.

    "Fuck the Brits,  we  won  the  war,"  he  grumbled  to  himself,  as if     somehow reaffirming the outcome of the American Revolution  would     help with his nerves. Maybe dumping his repulsive tea in the Thames     would also do his nerves some good.  Yes,  that would be nice—fuck      the Brits, tea in the harbor, 'U.S.A., U.S.A.'  and all that jazz. He seized     his cup like it owed him money  (which it did,  because it was  fucking     overpriced)  and stormed  out of the cafe,  cursing bitterly beneath his     breath.

    It was a small wonder that, considering his poor luck and his habit of     casting his  eyes  downward  when  he  was  brooding,  he wound up     running into somebody.  His  cup dropped suddenly from his hand to     clatter  on  the  sidewalk,  paper  folding  upon  impact  to  spill its hot     contents.  He  felt  a  bit  of  it  get  on  the  leg  of  his pants. Gray eyes     turned up sharply to deliver a venomous glare.

+ ——                    ❝ Watch where you're going, you shit. ❞

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +elladeclassified ]

    Journalism was a passion Michael wished he didn't pursue. He had a     problem with not  being  genuine—as  a  man  who  prided himself on     being  capable  of  doing  whatever  he  wanted  whenever  he  wanted,     having to  skip  around  every  fucking  state  playing  reporter  when he     wanted to just sit around and play golf like normal rich people was fr—     —ustrating as all hell.  He  didn't  realize how much he loved normalcy      until it was wrest from him.

    Now, his normal was a far cry  from  the  rest of the world's. His normal     was dozing off behind the wheel of his F12 Berlinetta as he sped down     the highway,  trying  to  stomach  a  decent  breakfast  at  a  shady diner     while the waitress asked him about his day despite his insistence that     she  buzz  off.   It  was  hotel  reservations  made  in  the  dead  of  night,     leeching off  free  wifi on  his  iPad  to  find  stories  worth  pursuing and     finding people worth eating. Normal was nomadic.  Normal was stre—     —sful. Normal was feral. He often  had  to  pay off hotel clerks when he     trudged across the lobby in  bloody  clothes,  and  thus he now traveled     often with a full wallet. Just in case he slipped up.

    Money had just as big a  habit  of  talking  as  it  did of enforcing silence,     though. He'd had to kill  greedy  clerks  before,  and it was an ugly sight      he didn't care repeating. Killing people he hadn't carefully selected was     immensely dissatisfying.  He had to find the right kind of person to sink     his teeth into—he preferred pretty young things, be they men or women,     who had a lot going for them.  He  liked  to rob them of their lives like he     had been robbed of his.

    Except, of course, their  death  was  a  little  less metaphorical and a lot     more violent, bloody murder.

    That was why Michael was there today. At this absurd little crime scene,     lips pressed into a thin line  as  he  scribbled down notes on his yellow     pad. He could see the  rugged  faces  of  hunters  clad  in suits ducking     under caution tape,  hear  them  talking  about  god-knows-what and he     had to swallow to keep his  blood  from  running  cold. And then he saw     one of  them  stoop,  pulling  back  the  tarp  that  covered  the  corpse to     expose a horribly mangled mess.

+ ——                    ❝ Chriiist, that's ugly. ❞

    His nose wrinkled, and he turned his eyes to his left. A woman was s—     —tanding next to  him,  who  appeared  to  be  just  as  interested  in the     scene as he was. A rather  pretty  young  lady  with  the  sort of air about      her that made her feel almost like a  somebody.  But he knew that to be      a silly notion.

    Michael jabbed  his  pen  towards  the  tarped  corpse, now addressing      her. "Can you believe the shit that people'll do?"

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +hxnibal ]

    Michael Gianni Insetto was a man who was prone to wandering. As a     journalist, it was practically in his job description—wander from place     to place, pick  up  stories,  write  what  he  could  and  publish what he     could without getting arrested or worse. Such was the complex realm     of specializing in grisly, horrific murders. But hey, he wasn't compla—     —ining; being surrounded by death made causing it by his own hand     feel a little easier. A  little  more  normal. So  he  kept up with his work     and  continued  writing,  toting  his   camera  wherever  he  could  and     being a certified pain in the  ass  to  those  who  preferred to keep the      depravity  of  the  human  mind   a   guarded   secret.  It  was  a  small      wonder he had been arrested  a  couple  times for his  nosiness—he     and the paddy wagon had some fond memories.

    Now, though, he  wasn't  getting  intimate  with  the  back  of a cop car.     Now he was wandering.  Although in this instance,  it wasn't so much     from city to city  but  from  place  to  place,  creeping  through  brush to     examine the crime scene.  He  hadn't managed to get to this one first,     this time, which was a damn bother.  Usually  his police scanner told     him when bodies were found, and so missing this one was compl—     —etely out of the  ordinary.  But,  he  supposed  he  couldn't always be     first. Although being at a crime scene crawling with coppers definitely     made him uneasy, and made things unnecessarily complicated.

    Hence  why   he   was   crawling   through   bushes.   Because  it  was     complicated.

    And also,  perhaps,  because  the  FBI  Behavioral  Science  Unit was     there. God, he hated  those  guys—not  because  they  pissed him off,     but because they were always around and made getting good photos     incredibly difficult. Although  he  did  get  in one or two disagreements     with Jack Crawford in the past.  But  that man was moreso on Freddie     Lounds's ass than his, so he  hadn't  had  any  trouble  lately. Not that     'trouble' would deter him  in  the  slightest,  of  course; journalism was      his passion, and he refused to  let  something  as silly as trespassing      laws or obstructing justice get in his way.

    "Glasgow grin, huh." He mumbled to himself,  frowning at the corpse     sprawled in the brush  and  glancing  at  the  vans  and cars parked in     the distance  and  the  various  people  milling  about  the scene. "I've     seen better." Carefully,  he raised his camera to his eye, careful to try     not to rustle the leaves. Unfortunately,  one can only successfully limit     their movements so  much when trying  to take pictures.  So it was no     small wonder when, as he attempted to change the angle,  he man—     —aged to lose his  balance  and  tumble  face-first  out  of the bushes     and right into the crime  scene.  More  specifically,  right into the crime     scene at somebody's feet.

    Gray eyes slowly traveled slowly upwards to come upon a face cast in     shadow. "Uh." He offered a wry smile. "Come here often?"

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +whopraysoverus ]

    Journalism. By definition, it is "the activity or profession of writing for news     papers  or  magazines  or  of broadcasting news  on  radio  or  television".     This is, arguably, not open for interpretation.  That is, unless your name is     Michael Insetto.  If  you're  Michael  Insetto, you  don't give two shades of a     shit about what is and  isn't  "open  for  interpretation". You interpret things     however the hell you want and nothing can stop you. Not even a dictionary.

    If  you  are  Michael  Insetto,  your  definition   of  journalism  is  simply  "an     excuse to barge into anyone's business at any given time."

    Thus,  it  is  no  small wonder when a  man with that  name  can  be found     parked in front of a stranger's  house,  tapping  the  end of his pen against     his lip  and  shifting  a  little  uncomfortably  in  his  seat,  checking  and re-     checking the address scrawled  on  his  notepad.  He'd been parked there     for a good ten  minutes,  now,  watching  the  front  door with a thinly-veiled     frown of discomfort.  Nervousness fit  on  him like a cheap suit;  he felt like     he was waiting for something to happen but he didn't  know  what,  and his     eyebrows knit together  as  he  tried  to  figure  out  why.  He was only there     because he was curious.  Because  he  knew  that, in all the cases he had     been spying on and sticking his nose  into,  there had been three constant      variables—Will Graham,  Jack Crawford,  and  Hannibal Lecter.  Hannibal,     of course,  he had only  learned  of  recently,  after  a fair amount of digging      and  shelling  out  the  contents  of  his  wallet to  greedy  paws  with  loose     tongues but still.  A constant.  And also someone  who  probably  wasn't as     frightening  as Jack Crawford  and  Will  Graham when it came to having  a     chat.  Funny  thing  about  being  a  reporter  and  a  serial  killer—it  makes     things unnecessarily complicated.

    This was not complicated, though. This was just showing up at a strang—     —er's house, without warning or permission, for a completely unasked-for     interview that he  wasn't  intending  on  letting  Dr.  Lecter  evade under any     circumstances. It would be pleasant.

    Michael stepped out of his car at last, shutting the door and tucking his pen     into his breast pocket as he carefully approached the front door.  Gray eyes     flitted briefly to the gold-trimmed face  of  his watch.  Definitely way too early     for Dr. Lecter to be out and about.  There was no way he wouldn't be home.     Leather-clad feet came to a halt at the  front  door, where he made it a point     to smooth out his coat,  adjust  his  tie,  and  try  his  best to not look like the     typical skeevy journalist people said he was.  He had to make an impres—     —sion. After all, not everyone needed to know what an asshole he was.

    His finger sought the doorbell and pressed  firmly,  but almost immediately     he  began  to  tap his foot.  Impatience  was something he  could  not  hide,     unfortunately,  and so agitation welled in his throat like bile as the seconds     ticked by.  The smile he'd tried painting  on soon turned into a scowl  as he     referred to his watch,  then his notepad,  and then  glanced  back at his car     and wondered briefly  if  he'd  left  the  keys  inside.  He  didn't  have long to     ponder this, of course,  as  he  heard the door swing open behind him and     immediately turned around,  painting  on  his most pleasant expression.  It     was time to play reporter.

+ ——                    ❝ Hello, Dr. Lecter! D'you have a moment? ❞

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +catnipforkillersbloom ]

    Mandatory. That was the word his mother used. A mandatory psychological     evaluation,  because she wanted to be  sure her baby was sane enough to     stand trial.  Or at least,  that's what she claimed—Michael knew better.  She     wasn't so much concerned with him being sane as being alright enough to     prove  he  hadn't  killed  Bletchley,  so he could  get  off  scot-free  and  keep     sending her checks every month. He knew how his mother operated. Every     Insetto was the same--even the ones that married in. All that mattered was     money,  money,  money,  and being surrounded by luxury in  an  attempt  to     prove that yes,  you can  buy  happiness  if  you  try  hard enough.  That was     practically the family philosophy.  He wouldn't be surprised if that wound up     on her tombstone. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought that "Insetto"     meant greed instead of just insect.

    But then again,  insect was  pretty  fitting  in  its own way.  He rather thought     his  mother  looked  like  a  praying   mantis,   face  all  pinched  and  hands     always  clasped  together to plead with him for further funding of  her  many     different,  incredibly expensive hobbies.   And there was always that  stupid     little phrase she used—don't you love your mom?  He hated it.   Loathed it.     Because every fucking time she pulled that card, he fell for it. That was why     he was in this  situation,  now  that  he  thought  about  it.  She'd  played her     goddamn tricks and crooned  in  his  ear  how  a "good" son would give his     dear, poor mother peace of mind by seeing a doctor.

    God,  he  fucking hated her sometimes.  Sort of like how he  already  hated     this  fucking  psychiatrist.   He  hadn't   even  met  her  yet,   and  he  already     decided that he'd dislike her.  She was  to be one of the three  psychiatrists     he  had to see before his mother  was  satisfied that he had a clean  bill  of     mental health. Because she knew that if there was just one,  he'd pay them     off  to send his mother good news  and be on his merry way.  This  method     effectively thwarted that. After all, it was hard enough to find just one unet—     —thical psychiatrist. Finding three would be fucking impossible.

+ ——                    ❝ Can we get the fuck on with this? ❞

    The words fumble out of his mouth the moment she opens the door, and he     pauses. Blinks. Remembers that a bad temper makes a bad report and lets     a nervous sort of smile tweak his features instead.  "Sorry," he said quickly,     tapping his palm against the arm of his chair and then balling it into a fist. "I     get a little bit snappy when I'm tired."  A lie,  which rolled smoothly off of his     tongue not because he was a practiced liar,  but because he was tired. Tired     of being pulled away from his work by frivolous shit like this. "I'm Michael I—     —nsetto. Here for my appointment."

[cxfone]

                                                                               [ +eideticker ]

+ ——                    ❝ What the fuck is that? ❞

    It's exasperation, at first. A sort of agitation that came from a salt-rimmed     cocktail of too early,  too tired,  and too frustrated.  Michael had been dr—     —iving for well over three hours,  now—he had only meant to drive fifteen     minutes,  from  a small diner to his home in  Chesapeake.  And  yet  now      here  he  was,  God-knows-where, staring at what looked like a  figure  in     the  distance.  A  figure  walking on  the road. Exasperation  is  now  quite     secondary; curiosity becomes paramount.

    The first thing to strike him was whether or not the other man was real. It     certainly  looked  like he was,  but he could easily be mistaken.  After  all,     it  was  damn  near  five  in  the  morning.  "Hey!"  He  cupped  his  hand      around  his  mouth and shouted,  the other focusing his flashlight  in  an     attempt at bringing out the man's features. Were he in his right mind,  he     would have then waited for a response.  Or,  at least,  known that his tiny     flashlight was pretty much  worthless  trying to go that far.  Unfortunately,     seeing  as  how he'd managed to drive two hours and  forty-five  minutes     past  his  own  house,  he  wasn't  even  close  to  his  right mind.  So  he     started  walking,  then  breaking into a jog,  leaving his car  idling  on  the     side  of  the road in favor of satisfying  his curiosity  (or maybe it  was his      sanity—he was unsure). He came to a careful, slow halt a few feet away.     Whether it was out of fear for the stranger or fear that he was hallucin—     —ating was unclear. "You're--you're real, right?"

    Somehow, that sounded less crazy in his head.