"At the End of the Game"
Part Eleven: Some Hunters
~ Some hunt for leisure, others don't... ~
Clarice was soon to recover from her fall, not once did she allow herself time to wallow in what would have been justifiable pain. She picked herself up off the ground and began a slow walk, looking over her shoulder every few minutes, knowing that she was unlikely to hear her hunter when, or if, he came in for the next attack.
The cut on her forehead was considerably deep, enough so to earn several stiches, had she been in the near presence of a hospital.
Her arm went to her shoulder without conscious thought. He had done a good job of her shoulder, probably exceeding the work of any doctor ever hired under the Bureau's health cover. Clarice peeled back the neck of her pyjama top to look at her wound. There they were, a perfect, straight row of little stiches, clean and dressed. She almost smiled at the magic of his work.
She closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust. When she'd first woken up at Krendler's she'd been mortified. Hannibal Lecter had sewn together her body, healed her wound, and taken on the role of her temporary God. She shivered at the thought. How wonderfully upsetting it was to imagine him, hunched over her body with a needle and stitching, his delicate hands, those fiend-like tools, weaving the pattern of a saviour. She remembered seeing him momentarily, while she had rested at his mercy beneath him. The flashlight he held between his teeth had prevented her from finding his gaze; she had only seen his dark form hovering above her, like some kind of sinister angel.
He had seen all of her. It was a thought that hadn't horrified her half as much as it should have. Hannibal Lecter was a gentleman at the very least, in fact he was probably the only man she knew she could completely trust in terms of 'clinical detachment'.
She thought about him then, about how she had lost herself in his kiss, for the second time. Of course she's never been kissed like that before in her life, he was the precedent of the many feels and desired she harboured, and he knew it. She had seen the victory in is charming smile. He had her, and she would never be with another man. It shamed her to know that she wished the reverse to also be true.
I wonder if...
A loud scratching noise startled her and brought her back to the present. She hit the ground hastily and crouched behind a wide oak tree. Again, she had failed herself, falling into thought and not paying attention to her current dilemma. Her eyes scanned the surrounding thick shrub demanding reason. Rays of sunlight hit the silk of her attire, creating a beacon of glittering ivory: a bloody diamond in the rough.
Clarice held her breath in the back of her throat and listened, her body remained rigid and motionless. A strong breeze stirred the leaves, and she listened as they met in their rough assault. Cicadas and crickets competed with the birds to voice their consoling tune, and for a brief moment she thought that perhaps paranoia had gotten the better of her.
Slowly she rose, careful of her placement and footing, and took a few steps backward, her eyes still piercing into the dense shrub.
And then she heard it again. Only this time it was louder, and closer.
Tension thumped behind her ears as her heart maddened its pace, she was sure if she looked down to her chest she would see the silk dancing in a rapid rhythm.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
She froze in position, unable to move, yet desperately wanting too. She though she heard a car door slamming shut, its metallic echo shifted the stillness and whatever calm she had left in her.
Silence. And then a clicking noise, almost like. . . clicking the safety off a pistol.
Adrenalin flooded her arteries. This was going too far. Loud footfalls thumped from the direction in which she had been running from. Their paced increased, communicating serous pursuit. The ultimate chase was on.
Primal instinct took over, and her legs started moving before she realised she was running, desperation her only source of energy.
Behind her she heard his pace quicken yet again, he was getting closer and she was running as fast as her body would allow. Again her limbs were under attack, but this time pain was comforting, at least she knew she was alive, it was enough to sustain momentum.
Ahead of her was much the same as what was behind her, a hazy swirl of greens and browns. She was moving too quickly to be able to define her surroundings, but she didn't really care, she just wanted go get out, get away.
A loud gunshot sounded and silenced nature for a brief instant, the hunting aspect of their game had just shot up the literal scale; this was real, this was so very real. Another shot fired, this time she felt a bullet graze past her left ear, her heart stopped and her knees went weak. She could see where the bullet had lodged, but she knew, had she shifted an inch just a few moments ago, it would have been in her head.
Birds flew away in their flocks, madly trying to escape the ciaos. Their cries mingles with her own
The third shot hadn't even registered in her ears when she let out a muffled howl of pain. She felt a hot surge of pain shoot up through the newly shattered bones in her right ankle, blood escaped furiously over the ground.
She fell forward, hands lost in the tall grass, and turned to look at what she had assumed to be a bullet wound. It wasn't.
A metal clamp had sunk its razor-sharp jaws into the flesh and bone at her ankle, bittersweet irony sang loud; she had well and truly stumbled into a wicked trap. It was a hunter's snare, specifically designed for the leisure of deer hunting, stags in particular.
The metal teeth had not completely severed the bone, but she could feel its unwanted icy internal presence. She tried to move, but failed miserably, the pain was too much; she winced in agony and frustration. Bloodshot eyes produced masses of the tears she so detested. Pain had often been a symbolism of her courage and bravery, but not now, not anymore. She had no fight left; she was at her outermost limits; so close to giving up, so far from the warrior that used to stare her down in the mirror.
A couple of yards away she could here the approaching footsteps, thumping zealously, they were loud and committed. He certainly had no intention of adopting a surprise attack. That was unlike him, but it didn't shock her, nothing he did would be capable of that anymore, she wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of witnessing her reactions. How dare he do this to her? Her cheeks burnt with fury.
In sudden aggravation she made one last attempt at holding onto her freedom. She pushed into the ground, elevating her body off the muddy grass, and bent at the knees to balance her weight. As she fought for a stable upright position she felt the teeth etch further into her bone. Another shriek vibrated through the air.
Physical release helped a little, and she was now walking on one foot, the other dragging the heavy metal clasp along the ground, followed by a trail of warm rich blood. She really shouldn't be moving about, she knew it, blood loss would prove to be a significant problem some time soon, she could already feel a distinct numbness climbing up her leg. In her years with the Bureau she had been subject to many injuries, both gun shot wounds from hardcore criminals, and self inflicted training accidents. She was extremely familiar with pain, but this time something felt different. Her heart hung heavy in her body, she wanted to reach into her chest and yank it out. Hannibal Lecter had never tried to hurt her before, not like this, he gave his word.
Another shot fired. She stopped dead in her tracks, the tiny hairs on her arms, legs and neck stood straight as a shiver rocketed through her body. He was right behind her, the shot had been fired directly upwards, as if to promote a final warning. She didn't want to turn around; she knew he would be waiting for a reaction, but she didn't want please or amuse him in anyway. She stood completely still and watched one last tear burn a path over her lips.
She looked down at her trembling hands and scorned herself for the messy state she had let herself into.
A voice broke the silence, and she jumped in apprehension.
" Alright, games over, Lecter"
Her eyes widened and her heart missed a beat. That was not the voice of Hannibal Lecter.
She wasn't sure whether it was hope or disappointment, which suddenly allowed her head a quick glance over her shoulder. Standing 12 feet from her, out of a clearing of tall grass came the last man she would have expected to see.
An aging Jack Crawford stood, rifle cocked towards her.
They both shared an instant of hysterical disbelief. Suddenly his features lightened, he lowered his gun and relished the image she offered; scared, injured little Starling. It was a first.
" Clarice..." His voice travelled to her ears in a comforting caress.
At that moment, neither spoke of happiness or relief.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Surprise!! Yay! Another player.
With special thanks to Troesnaja, this chapter was influenced by our delightful little conversations ;)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Part Eleven: Some Hunters
~ Some hunt for leisure, others don't... ~
Clarice was soon to recover from her fall, not once did she allow herself time to wallow in what would have been justifiable pain. She picked herself up off the ground and began a slow walk, looking over her shoulder every few minutes, knowing that she was unlikely to hear her hunter when, or if, he came in for the next attack.
The cut on her forehead was considerably deep, enough so to earn several stiches, had she been in the near presence of a hospital.
Her arm went to her shoulder without conscious thought. He had done a good job of her shoulder, probably exceeding the work of any doctor ever hired under the Bureau's health cover. Clarice peeled back the neck of her pyjama top to look at her wound. There they were, a perfect, straight row of little stiches, clean and dressed. She almost smiled at the magic of his work.
She closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust. When she'd first woken up at Krendler's she'd been mortified. Hannibal Lecter had sewn together her body, healed her wound, and taken on the role of her temporary God. She shivered at the thought. How wonderfully upsetting it was to imagine him, hunched over her body with a needle and stitching, his delicate hands, those fiend-like tools, weaving the pattern of a saviour. She remembered seeing him momentarily, while she had rested at his mercy beneath him. The flashlight he held between his teeth had prevented her from finding his gaze; she had only seen his dark form hovering above her, like some kind of sinister angel.
He had seen all of her. It was a thought that hadn't horrified her half as much as it should have. Hannibal Lecter was a gentleman at the very least, in fact he was probably the only man she knew she could completely trust in terms of 'clinical detachment'.
She thought about him then, about how she had lost herself in his kiss, for the second time. Of course she's never been kissed like that before in her life, he was the precedent of the many feels and desired she harboured, and he knew it. She had seen the victory in is charming smile. He had her, and she would never be with another man. It shamed her to know that she wished the reverse to also be true.
I wonder if...
A loud scratching noise startled her and brought her back to the present. She hit the ground hastily and crouched behind a wide oak tree. Again, she had failed herself, falling into thought and not paying attention to her current dilemma. Her eyes scanned the surrounding thick shrub demanding reason. Rays of sunlight hit the silk of her attire, creating a beacon of glittering ivory: a bloody diamond in the rough.
Clarice held her breath in the back of her throat and listened, her body remained rigid and motionless. A strong breeze stirred the leaves, and she listened as they met in their rough assault. Cicadas and crickets competed with the birds to voice their consoling tune, and for a brief moment she thought that perhaps paranoia had gotten the better of her.
Slowly she rose, careful of her placement and footing, and took a few steps backward, her eyes still piercing into the dense shrub.
And then she heard it again. Only this time it was louder, and closer.
Tension thumped behind her ears as her heart maddened its pace, she was sure if she looked down to her chest she would see the silk dancing in a rapid rhythm.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
She froze in position, unable to move, yet desperately wanting too. She though she heard a car door slamming shut, its metallic echo shifted the stillness and whatever calm she had left in her.
Silence. And then a clicking noise, almost like. . . clicking the safety off a pistol.
Adrenalin flooded her arteries. This was going too far. Loud footfalls thumped from the direction in which she had been running from. Their paced increased, communicating serous pursuit. The ultimate chase was on.
Primal instinct took over, and her legs started moving before she realised she was running, desperation her only source of energy.
Behind her she heard his pace quicken yet again, he was getting closer and she was running as fast as her body would allow. Again her limbs were under attack, but this time pain was comforting, at least she knew she was alive, it was enough to sustain momentum.
Ahead of her was much the same as what was behind her, a hazy swirl of greens and browns. She was moving too quickly to be able to define her surroundings, but she didn't really care, she just wanted go get out, get away.
A loud gunshot sounded and silenced nature for a brief instant, the hunting aspect of their game had just shot up the literal scale; this was real, this was so very real. Another shot fired, this time she felt a bullet graze past her left ear, her heart stopped and her knees went weak. She could see where the bullet had lodged, but she knew, had she shifted an inch just a few moments ago, it would have been in her head.
Birds flew away in their flocks, madly trying to escape the ciaos. Their cries mingles with her own
The third shot hadn't even registered in her ears when she let out a muffled howl of pain. She felt a hot surge of pain shoot up through the newly shattered bones in her right ankle, blood escaped furiously over the ground.
She fell forward, hands lost in the tall grass, and turned to look at what she had assumed to be a bullet wound. It wasn't.
A metal clamp had sunk its razor-sharp jaws into the flesh and bone at her ankle, bittersweet irony sang loud; she had well and truly stumbled into a wicked trap. It was a hunter's snare, specifically designed for the leisure of deer hunting, stags in particular.
The metal teeth had not completely severed the bone, but she could feel its unwanted icy internal presence. She tried to move, but failed miserably, the pain was too much; she winced in agony and frustration. Bloodshot eyes produced masses of the tears she so detested. Pain had often been a symbolism of her courage and bravery, but not now, not anymore. She had no fight left; she was at her outermost limits; so close to giving up, so far from the warrior that used to stare her down in the mirror.
A couple of yards away she could here the approaching footsteps, thumping zealously, they were loud and committed. He certainly had no intention of adopting a surprise attack. That was unlike him, but it didn't shock her, nothing he did would be capable of that anymore, she wouldn't allow him the satisfaction of witnessing her reactions. How dare he do this to her? Her cheeks burnt with fury.
In sudden aggravation she made one last attempt at holding onto her freedom. She pushed into the ground, elevating her body off the muddy grass, and bent at the knees to balance her weight. As she fought for a stable upright position she felt the teeth etch further into her bone. Another shriek vibrated through the air.
Physical release helped a little, and she was now walking on one foot, the other dragging the heavy metal clasp along the ground, followed by a trail of warm rich blood. She really shouldn't be moving about, she knew it, blood loss would prove to be a significant problem some time soon, she could already feel a distinct numbness climbing up her leg. In her years with the Bureau she had been subject to many injuries, both gun shot wounds from hardcore criminals, and self inflicted training accidents. She was extremely familiar with pain, but this time something felt different. Her heart hung heavy in her body, she wanted to reach into her chest and yank it out. Hannibal Lecter had never tried to hurt her before, not like this, he gave his word.
Another shot fired. She stopped dead in her tracks, the tiny hairs on her arms, legs and neck stood straight as a shiver rocketed through her body. He was right behind her, the shot had been fired directly upwards, as if to promote a final warning. She didn't want to turn around; she knew he would be waiting for a reaction, but she didn't want please or amuse him in anyway. She stood completely still and watched one last tear burn a path over her lips.
She looked down at her trembling hands and scorned herself for the messy state she had let herself into.
A voice broke the silence, and she jumped in apprehension.
" Alright, games over, Lecter"
Her eyes widened and her heart missed a beat. That was not the voice of Hannibal Lecter.
She wasn't sure whether it was hope or disappointment, which suddenly allowed her head a quick glance over her shoulder. Standing 12 feet from her, out of a clearing of tall grass came the last man she would have expected to see.
An aging Jack Crawford stood, rifle cocked towards her.
They both shared an instant of hysterical disbelief. Suddenly his features lightened, he lowered his gun and relished the image she offered; scared, injured little Starling. It was a first.
" Clarice..." His voice travelled to her ears in a comforting caress.
At that moment, neither spoke of happiness or relief.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Surprise!! Yay! Another player.
With special thanks to Troesnaja, this chapter was influenced by our delightful little conversations ;)
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*