Hannibal Lecter and Jeff Goldblum are stuck in Stranded in a Lunar Base and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well, Dr. Lecter," Goldblum begins, adjusting his glasses, "isn't this lunar dust just...fascinating? The sheer *improbability* of it all."

Lecter slowly inhales the sterile air, "Improbability, yes. Like the confluence of events that lead a lamb to slaughter, wouldn't you say?"

Goldblum quirks an eyebrow. "Lambs, huh? I find the whole lunar ecosystem, or lack thereof, more compelling. No predator/prey dynamic. Such a *blank slate*."

"Ah, but Doctor, absence doesn't equate to innocence. The slate is blank, ripe for inscription, for *art*, perhaps of the most...visceral kind." Lecter replies, a glint in his eye.

Goldblum shuffles his feet. "Visceral...right. I'm more concerned with the practical. Like, how long before this life support system starts...you know...malfunctioning? Chaos theory, in space!"

"Malfunction is merely a deviation from expectation, a canvas for improvisation. Think of the possibilities, Doctor. A culinary challenge, even." Lecter muses, almost to himself.

Goldblum shivers slightly. "Culinary? On the moon? I'd rather contemplate the existential dread of being alone with my thoughts...and, uh, you."

Lecter smiles, a thin, predatory curve. "Dread is a flavour, Doctor. A bitter one, but essential to the palate. Consider it a marinade."

"Marinade...right. I'm sensing a theme here, Hannibal. A rather...*invasive* theme," Goldblum remarks, tugging at his collar.

"Invasive, Doctor? Or simply...intimately observed? The moon offers us the luxury of uninterrupted observation. Of each other, perhaps," Lecter concludes, his gaze unwavering.