Note: The 'Honey to the Lion' postcard came from Dr Lecter in the novel, yet in the film, it was written by Mason Verger. So this poses a slight problem, which is probably why Clarice is so confused! So…I just included both to be on the safe side! A warning, this chapter contains scenes of a very violent, horrific and disturbing nature.

DAYNIGHT

a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir

WEDNESDAY

A meadow.

Wild flowers, knee length, whispered softly in the breeze. There was no fauna to be seen, and as Clarice Starling turned, she felt the sun on her face.

A giggle.

Clarice lowered her head, and opened her eyes. Lilia Derevko, murderer, friend, doctor, stood radiant in front of her. She was wearing a long purple dress, and matching purple glasses.

Clarice…

Lilia had not worn glasses. Her eyes had been perfect.

Open your eyes.

Another giggle, a warm smile, and Lilia began to talk with her soft Russian accent:

"Nothing is simpler to kill a man; the difficulties arise in attempting to avoid the consequences."

"What?" said Clarice, her carefully hidden Virginian accent forcing itself to audibly surface, "That's a quote. What is it?"

"Rex Stout," said Lilia, "but remember Clarice. You are the answer to Samson's riddle: You are the honey to the lion. The Great Sage wrote that, in the guise of an insane disfigured madman. Well, in our lifetime. In another, it was a different madman. Politer, charming…but still mad!"

"Lilia…insane and madman are the same, and what are you talking about? " said Clarice.

"But our madman's twice as mad as he's disfigured!" giggled Lilia, "There's no arguing with my logic!"

"But your logic led you to kill," said Clarice, "how can you justify it?"

"Oh no," said Lilia, "not logic, never logic. Conditioning, by my experiences. Accident's; creating violence."

A small drop of blood fell from Lilia's little finger to the flower's below, but none followed.

Clarice, wake up damnit!

Lilia smiled one final time.

"Wake up sleepyhead!" she said, "Open your eyes."

With a gasp, Clarice did.

--

­­­­(d a y)

Waking up, she gazed into the concerned eyes of District Director Vaughn.

"You okay?" he asked, "You were screaming."

"What?" said Clarice, her eyes slowly focusing.

"Screaming," said Vaughn, "bad dreams?"

"You could say that. I seem to be on duty twenty-four hours a day. I'm cooped up in her during the day due to some madman! It's insane!"

"Well, we may have a lead. We found a body, downtown."

"And how is that helpful?" asked Clarice.

"A word, inscribed on the corpse. Chosen." Clarice sat upright in shock.

"When can I see it?" she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.

"After dark," said Vaughn, raising a hand to quell Clarice's yell of indignation, "just to be on the safe side. We're getting forensics over there now, and as soon as Night falls, I'll take you. It isn't pretty though. Real nasty. There's also this." He handed Clarice a letter, "We scanned this. As always, negative chemical, biological, and explosive.

Clarice sighed, and opened it quickly. A newspaper cutting fell out. Clarice recognised it instantly, it was from The National Tattler.

"DEATH ANGEL: CLARICE STARLING – THE FBI'S KILLING MACHINE! By Thomas Harris, Special Correspondent."

That was all it said, in it's seventy-two-point Railroad Gothic. The clipping of the headline. Nothing more. Except…

Seeing a faint imprint, Clarice carefully turned the cutting over, so not to disturb any forensic evidence, they might have been careless, and left prints, she saw written in black permanent marker: "How are you finding your Gaol? An angel sent from Hell. Seems appropriate somehow." It wasn't signed, but you didn't have to be a genius to figure out who sent it.

"Shit!" yelled Clarice, "how could we have been so stupid! It's right in front of out damn noses!"

"What?" said Vaughn, "What are you talking about?"

Clarice brought the clipping to the table, where yesterdays letter was resting.

"Here," said Clarice, "I never realised until now. It's this one word, it's the key. Gaol."

"Key, gaol. Ironic," muttered Vaughn.

"No!" said Clarice, "Look at the way it's spelt. How do we spell 'jail', here?"

"J – A – I – L," said Vaughn, "but it's spelt wrong!"

"No," said Clarice, "it's spelt right!"

"I don't follow."

"In America, we spell 'jail', like you just did, J – A – I – L; like they do in Great Britain. However, the proper BRITISH spelling is G – A – O – L, like in this letter. That's how it should be called, but some believe that the American way of spelling had corrupted the British original! We're looking for a Brit."

"That doesn't narrow it down as much," said Vaughn, "but what are they after. Are they anti-American?"

"I think they're just anti-Starling!" sighed Clarice.

--

(n i g h t)

Blue and red lights flashed around the crime scene, but the sirens were switched off, and Starling was grateful for that.

"Are you sure about this?" asked District Director Vaughn, "I saw this, this morning, and…it's unspeakable."

"I'll have seen worse," said Clarice, who stopped a moment, as a subtle stench invaded her nostrils. Blood. Fresh blood. She steeled herself and walked into the flat.

It wasn't a particularly rough part of town, just noisy, and the neighbours had rung after they had begun to smell something.

The corpse was in the living room, and Clarice realised her nose had been right. There was blood everywhere, especially where the hands and feet of the body were. Then she realised. There were no hands or feet of the body. Something had cut them off cleanly at the wrists and ankles. Blood had grouped there, masking the flesh, but Clarice could see bone protruding through the mess.

Forcing herself not to regurgitate, Clarice kept moving, and kept thinking.

"Where is the rest of the…body?" she managed, before she flung herself out the door, and violently deposited her lunch on the cold paving stones outside.

It cannot be stressed enough, how horrific, and disturbing, this corpse was. The murder was…well lets not go there yet.

When she managed to get her stomach under control, Clarice sighed, and moved back inside.

"The rest of the body," said Vaughn, "is underneath the table. And I did warn you."

"Yeah," said Clarice, "thanks for that. Really clear." Before Vaughn got a chance to reply, she moved to the table. The hands and feet were neatly tied together, so Clarice came to the correct conclusion, that the hands and feet had been tied together, and severed at the same time, so remaining bound.

"Guy was treated like a piece of meat," said Vaughn from behind her, "It's like you'd tie an animal. Cause of death was blood loss. They did this too him while he was still alive."

"Jesus Christ," said Clarice, "just how…could. No, focus. What was this message you told me about?"

"On his chest. Inscribed in blood."

"Great," muttered Clarice, "just, friggin', great."

A forensic officer, opened the mans shirt. Presumably inscribed by a knife were the words were:

i disobeyed the

C H O S E N

"Not that skilled," said Vaughn, "they cut his left nipple off."

"Probably by accident," said Clarice, "but considering what they did. I wouldn't be surprised."

"We found a hair, not of the man," said Vaughn, "we're ID'ing it, and the John Doe. You okay?"

"No," said Clarice, "I'm not. Is there anything else you want to show me?" Vaughn shook his head. "Good, can we please go?"

"Probably a good idea," said Vaughn, "sometime I really hate this job."

--

Outside, the air was cold and still. Clarice breathed in deeply as she walked to Vaughn's car, trying to expunge the cruelty of the savage murder.

"So what do we do now?" asked Clarice. They were about halfway to the car, some way from the Chicago Police Department and FBI behind them.

"Well," began Vaughn, as with a screech of tires, and a pop, he slowly fell to the ground.

"VAUGHN!" screamed Clarice, as she recognised the sound of a silenced pistol. A large unmarked black van pulled up behind her, the sliding door, partly open, and being slid violently aside, as darkly gloved hands reached for her, and grabbed her, pulling her inside, against her will, shoving, trying to hold her breath, as a rag was placed over her mouth and nose, and she breathed something in, chemical, Chloroform and slowly, losing all consciousness, she fell into a black coma.

As she struggled to remain conscious, she heard a whispering in her ear, the breath almost intimate, saying: "You are a prisoner…of the Chosen, Agent Starling."

Clarice lost track of everything after that.

--

Note: Right, I've got some nasty stuff floating around my brain. I hope nobody was offended, I actually found it incredibly difficult to write this chapter. The next chapter will be very short, with a few clues being revealed, and then it's Thursday! I'm hoping to get A Hole In The Head finished, but there are one or two slight problems with the chronology, so as soon as I've fixed it, it'll be up. I hope you enjoyed this chapter (and didn't find it upsetting, or too disturbing), and please, 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