Note: Right, very strange goings on. As I've sort of ruled out a brother of Lilia's in Her Burning Heart (but very cool idea Penelope! (actually, wish I'd thought of it!)) so who is the mysterious attacker? Please read on!

DAYNIGHT

a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir

TUESDAY

(d a y)

The bloody woodpeckers refused to stop rapping on Clarice Starling's head. They circled her, and as she woke up out of the strange dream, the rapping continued. It was the door.

Straightening the wrinkled clothes, she rolled off the bed and walked to the door, finger-combing her hair. Opening the door, she saw District Director Vaughn.

"Good morning Agent Clarice," he said, his large eyes concerned, "I have something for you. A letter. It's been sweeped at the field office – it was hand delivered to the hotel some time last night. Negative, on chemical; biological; mechanical; and nuclear." Clarice raised an eyebrow;

"Nuclear?"

"Yes," said Vaughn, "may I come in?"

"Of course," said Clarice, "can I offer you a drink?"

"A cup of tea?" asked Vaughn.

"Sure."

"Thankyou."

After putting the electric kettle on, she sat on the edge of the bed, and turned her attention to the letter. It had been opened, and she presumed, dusted for fingerprints. Vaughn confirmed this.

The letters of the first words were in a simple hand, uncomplicated, yet clear. He or she was intelligent. It read:

For the attention of Special Agent Clarice Starling, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

She withdrew the letter, opened its folded pages, and began to read.

Special Agent Starling,

How do I begin to describe my contempt for you? I do not wish this to sound petty, or vengeful…and yet bitchiness may be all I can suggest.

You are a murderer Special Agent Starling. It is a simple as that. The FBI female agent who has shot and killed the most people. Not killed – murdered. Not people – victims.

You are a monster, not fit to live with the people of good. You deserve darkness; you are not fit to see the light of day.

Therefore I will deem the terms of your INCARCERATION. I do this not lightly, but out of a respect for the ones you have slaughtered. Therefore…you may not leave the hotel under light of day. When you have left Chicago, the Chosen will follow you. The Chosen are relentless. You may never see the light of day again, for you must remain indoors. When the sun sets…you will be temporarily reprieved.

Do not try to find us. You know what would entail if you did.

You deserve misery. You deserve incarceration. We are your gaolers. I wish you pleasant nights, and tedious days.

The Chosen.

"What is this?" snarled Clarice, angry, "Who does this person think he is?"

"Serious?" said Vaughn, "A crank? Could be either. I thought it would be better if I told you. I don't know how you would find this. Your friendly neighbourhood taskforce is right next-door, and they're tracing it as we speak. This is strange."

"It's rubbish," said Clarice, as she strode past Vaughn. Vaughn followed, almost chasing her down the stairs of the hotel.

"Are you sure?" asked Vaughn, "We have FBI patrolling the hotel, but still."

"I don't care," Clarice said, "I will not be threatened. I refuse to be frightened by a single note!" They were in the lobby now, and people were staring at the raised voices. The sun was bright, but the wind was gusting through the open door, and Clarice felt the cold against her skin.

She walked into the light, and smiled triumphantly.

"See-" but her words were cut off prematurely, as five gunshots boomed out, and she saw five large holes open in the stonewall beside her. Vaughn reached out and grabbed her collar, pulling her backwards into the lobby, while simultaneously drawing his own firearm, and firing in the direction of the shooter. All civilians in the immediate area had dropped to the floor.

Sprawled on the floor, Starling looked up, shocked. "What the hell is this?" she cried, "Why is someone shooting?" Vaughn ducked back into the lobby, as Federal Agents poured towards the shooter.

"Stay down!" he said to Starling, then reaching into his pocket he drew a walkie-talkie, and spoke into it rapidly; "What's going on? Speak to me Saunders."

"Nothing sir," said Saunders, over the com, "the shooter's disappeared. We have agents in pursuit, and I require forensics."

"Done," said Vaughn, "contact me via the taskforce."

"Damn," said Starling, "so it looks like I was wrong. What are we going to do?"

"We have to keep you isolated…and indoors; at least temporarily. We could do with your help on analysis. It's boring, but necessary."

"What about night? It said I could go out at night."

"Yeah…if you're willing to risk it, I'll give you guards. For now, let's see what we can find."

--

Unknown location, somewhere in Chicago

"Is this really what we want? Can we do this?"

"We have to. For the sake of us all. For the sake of those innocent."

--

Time is a precious thing. When lost, it can never be regained…and perhaps that is the intention for Special Agent Starlings pseudo-captors. It is a dangerous plight.

As the sun sets, and the wind begins to pick up over Chicago, the danger sets. Once called a 'Death Angel', Clarice Starling seems to have been metamorphosed into a vampire…albeit without the blood.

Mind you, there are more than a few people who believe that the blood part is perhaps more real than the American Government lets on…

(n i g h t)

The FBI were swarming the buildings around the hotel, all edgily waiting for the appearance of Agent Starling. They had received an anonymous tip-off earlier in the day, which Clarice had been analysing carefully, hunched over a computer screen. It had been a boring task…but one which was vital.

Snipers lined every rooftop, all sweeping the streets. Slowly, the doors of the hotel opened, and Clarice Starling strode defiantly out, three agents flanking her. She paused a brief moment, as if any daring man (or woman) to kill her.

Satisfied that no one came, she continued on the pre-determined road. Nobody came, and she wasn't stopped by any of these so-called 'The Chosen'.

Starling's destination was a bar…not one of ill repute, but a family run establishment. She'd been told to sit at a certain table, at a certain time, and this informant would come.

But nothing was destined to happen this night.

After waiting some hours, and drinking a few glasses of wine, absolutely nothing happened.

A false tip off, possibly by The Chosen to keep her out of trouble for the night.

She sighed bitterly, at the wasted time, as she was escorted back to the hotel. Nothing. They should have checked it first.

When she arrived at the hotel, Vaughn came up to her, but she brushed him off, and went to her room.

It didn't take her long to fall asleep, which was pitiful and troubled.

But the wasted night was not as wasted as she might have first thought.

Some believe that dreams might hold the key.

If so…Clarice's dreams were haunted by a lonely spectre.

Lilia Derevko.

Note: Okay-dokey, the next chapter should be up fairly shortly, and hopefully the concluding part to A Hole in the Head, and another Her Burning Heart. Although this 'night' section was short, there was a point, which will be revealed! Anyway, hope you enjoyed it and please review!

Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page without my express written permission. Thankyou!

JetNoir