Note: This chapter contains some scenes of torture. I seem to be writing quite a bit about subjects I feel strongly against, domestic abuse (in Her Burning Heart), and now torture in this. Interestingly enough, I hadn't intended to use it for this chapter, but as I started to write the kidnapping at the end of Wednesday, then it just sort of fell into place. To paraphrase Quentin Tarantino (regarding Reservoir Dogs): 'I didn't go out with the intention of writing a bitching torture scene, it just sort of happened.' It's the same here, and I firmly believe that under no circumstances is torture acceptable, which is why I'm writing about it in such a way.
DAYNIGHT
a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir
THURSDAY
(d a y)
The Warehouse
Clarice Starling awoke screaming, and that was how she spent the next hour. Burns were inflicted on her body for no purpose but the pleasure of her captors.
And then they left her alone.
--
Breathing deeply, and trying to come to terms with what was happening, Clarice tried to make sense of her surroundings. She was in a warehouse, and due to relative silence she presumed she was some way away from passing traffic. Indeed, if she were in such pain, and screaming, her captors would want to make sure that no one could hear her.
They had been using an iron rod, seemingly heated to hurt her. It was crude, yet effective, yet they would need something – like a fire – to heat the metal.
They didn't want information. Not yet. But they might.
Bighting back another scream, Clarice tried to focus, but the pain was too intense. She was strapped to a hard bed, her arms and legs separated by leather straps.
She couldn't do this anymore. This wasn't even for information. They were torturing her, sadistically, for pleasure. What sort of monster could do that to anyone…human or otherwise?
She knew she was going to die. They couldn't afford for her to live, and Dr Lecter was not here. He couldn't save her this time. She had no one to rely on. No one to rescue her.
Vaughn! Was he alright? Had they killed him as well?
What did these 'Chosen' want?
Clarice found the answer simple.
Pain.
Suffering.
They wanted misery.
--
The HospitalDistrict Director Vaughn was still unconscious, as his fiancé came to visit.
"What's wrong?" she cried, almost frantic with worry.
"Maria," said the Doctor, "he's been shot. We're lucky, it's only a tranquilliser, but we can't bring him out. It could be up to twenty-four hours before he comes round."
"I don't understand," said Maria, gazing at Vaughn's closed eyelids, "he said he was on routine assignment."
The Doctor sighed. This would not make it easier.
"I have a letter for you," said the Doctor, "the FBI have checked it, due to its unusual method of delivery."
"How was it delivered?" Maria asked.
"Pigeon," said the Doctor, "the message arrived at the Hospital, addressed to you, by Carrier Pigeon."
"WHAT?"
"I'm serious," said the Doctor, "it just seems the sender isn't. Serious, that is. I'll leave you to be with your husband."
Maria slowly opened the letter with shaking hands.
For the fiancé of District Director Vaughn,
I wish to express my regrets regarding the injuries sustained by District Director Vaughn by out hand. It was a necessary evil, in our bid to capture and incarcerate the murderer called Clarice Starling. We must ask you to convey a message to your fiancé, that our fight is not with him; rather, he is involved in trying to keep Starling safe. He must cease and desist, with immediate effect, these attempts. We will not be held responsible for our actions if he is harmed further, if he attempts to stop us.
Please stress our pure intent to District Director Vaughn, and our unreserved apologies again for his injuries.
Sincerely,
The Chosen.
--
The WarehouseClarice again bordered between the state of consciousness, and sleep.
Inch for inch, a burn is probably the worst injury that can be inflicted for sheer pain. Nothing hurts more, and that is why The Chosen had seemingly…chosen it. Instant pain, in virtually no time.
Outside the Warehouse, the sun is beginning to set. They have more planned, but in their eyes it isn't fit for the Sun to witness.
Red fills the sky, what they call Shepherd's Delight, as red fills Clarice's vision.
She isn't going to be too delighted.
--
The HotelThe FBI Taskforce's new assignment is too find Clarice Starling, but they know that it is the proverbial needle in a haystack the size of…well, Chicago. She could be anywhere, including outside the city.
Deputy District Director Hamilton, of FBI Chicago, is in over his head. He's happy following Vaughn's orders, but he's never lead anything before. All he can do is delegate and pray. Praying is good, he thinks, and he prays that Vaughn will wake up soon, so he can take over again.
They are around the twenty-hour mark since Clarice was abducted; the Violent Crimes Unit (Kidnapping) are trawling the city for clues, but still nothing. Tech's are scanning radio frequencies, for errant communications, and are scanning telephones for hits on keywords: Clarice, Starling, Chosen; and so on. No luck.
And it really is luck. The FBI has nothing to go on, Local Police are proving to be less than useless, and the media are having a field day.
On a side note of curiosity, no one is actually checking out the Pigeon. Maybe they'll get to that.
--
(n i g h t)
The Warehouse
"Clarice…wake up," that hurtful voice was calling for her again, "wake up!" Sadly, she did as ordered. Her eyes swam into focus, and for the first time she saw the face of her captor. It was a man, with a British accent, and a thick beard. His pale blue eyes captivated and held her fast.
"Stop this," Clarice murmured, "you don't have too."
"Yes we do," said the captor, and Clarice realised that she had been moved. Her feet were bare, and held in stocks, her arms tied behind her back. There was a long bamboo pole on the floor, and a bucket filled with some unidentifiable liquid.
"Bastinado," said Clarice, "you're going to use a Bastinado. Beat the soles of my feet. How original."
"Not quite," the captor smirked, "although your sarcasm is a refreshing change to the screaming, Agent Starling." A pause as he turned, "Bring me the implement!"
Behind her, Clarice heard a dull bleating, and she almost laughed at how ridiculous it was.
"A goat?" she said, "To do what? Eat my feet? I think you would need boars to do that! Or something that isn't a herbivore!"
"Again, not quite right, Agent Starling," said the captor, "we don't want him to eat your feet." He reached down, picked up the liquid, and sloshed it over Starling's feet.
"Salt water," the captor said, "in Medieval times, a known form of torture was to pour salt water over a captive's feet, when in the stocks, and to get a goat to lick it." Guiding the goat with the bamboo pole, as if touching the animal would de-cleanse the captor, the goat proceeded to do just that.
Clarice was at a point between screaming and laughing, but the sensation reached a point that was simply uncomfortable. It hurt, and made her squirm like an eel.
The goat didn't last long, thankfully, and the captor simply decided to accelerate events.
"Well," he said, "this day is almost at an end. Here is where you are…and there is a phone about to be placed within your reach. It will automatically dial the phone of Director Vaughn's hospital bedside…and you will have one minute before the phone will disconnect. After the phone had disconnected, you will die in an hour…unless he reaches you in time."
He reached behind Clarice, and untied her hands. She weakly grabbed for him, but he pulled away easily.
"Such spirit," the captor said, face twisting into a smirk, pulling out an extremely long knife and plunging it deeply into Clarice's arm, pinning it to the floor below. Clarice cried out, and the man twisted away, before she could grab him again. From the edge of the room, he slid a mobile phone to her right hand.
"We are leaving now."
And so they did.
--
The HospitalDistrict Director Vaughn had woken up an hour ago, and apart from feeling groggy, he was alright. He is currently in conversation with his fiancé as the phone rings.
"Yes," he says.
"Vaughn, it's Clarice. Don't talk, I have less than sixty seconds to talk to you before the phone disconnects. I'm at this location," which she gave him, "and you have to come and get me within an hour of this phone call, or I'll be executed. I think they've left, but I counted five of them. I heard a van pull away. You've got to co-"
The phone clicked dead.
"Clarice!" said Vaughn, and wasting no time, staggered to his feet, and dialled the FBI Chicago head office, and explained the situation. Within minutes cars were on their way to the Warehouse, and a care had picked up Vaughn by his insistence, his fiancé and doctor protesting vehemently…but Vaughn would brook no argument.
Time was running out. Fast.
--
The WarehouseIt had been close to half an hour since Clarice had made her call, and since then had mercifully passed out. She hadn't wanted to touch the knife sticking out of her arm, for fear of making things far worse. All she knew was the pain was agonising…and her burns felt worse. However, that was a small comfort. She knew that the worse the burn was, the less pain you felt, as the nerve endings had been destroyed, and as she was in so much pain, she felt the burns were superficial. However, the burns were still agony, and she felt that pain acutely.
The Police and FBI had forbidden all (including a protesting Vaughn) to enter, but two young FBI agents, who crept into the Warehouse, guns outstretched, covering each other. They soon found Clarice, and asked for Paramedics to come and get her, but the Paramedics were forbidden to enter. They would have to make do, and carry her out.
Health and Safety, not at it's best…but the taskforce didn't know where the Chosen were.
A sturdy padlock, locked the shackle on the stocks edge, and with no key in sight, one FBI agent carefully took aim, almost vertically above the lock, and shot it off with two bullets. The padlock flew across the room, but they could release her from her bonds.
Picking Clarice up between them, they scurried out, other Agents covering them.
Groaning, Clarice woke up as she was being taken into the ambulance, the first thing she saw was Vaughn's bleary eyes.
"Glad you're safe," he said.
"Safe," said Clarice, "believe me it wasn't that."
"I can imagine that," that said Vaughn, "and for what it's worth…I'm sorry."
Clarice just smiled wearily.
It was then a fair approximation of all hell broke loose, when the Warehouse exploded into a series of three fireballs, leaving no trace or evidence that anyone had been there. The only thing left would be part of a charred skeleton of a goat which would baffle everyone until Clarice got a chance to explain.
And so, in the chaos of the fire, Clarice Starling was driven away, with sirens wailing, away from the Inferno.
She knew that Paradiso was not waiting for her.
So all she was left with was Purgatorio.
It seemed that that would have to be enough.
Note: Well, I'm really starting to get into the swing of things, and the story is going to have finished in three-ish more chapters! I'm thoroughly enjoying myself, but I must get A Hole In The Head finished, and preferable two chapters of Her Burning Heart…I'm trying to write these stories on a rough schedule, so I don't end up with one story to finish before I can merge the completed stories. But for some reason, I love the challenge, although it's getting incredibly complicated now. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it, and please review! (By the way, what did you think of the more surreal elements of this story, the Pigeon and the Goat? And sincerest apologies for all you animal-lovers there, but please remember that no goats were harmed in the making of this fanfic, and also no FBI agents!)
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