Note: I'm back! And deliriously happy to be so, might I add! This chapter has been a long time coming, and somewhat tricky, as there wasn't too much I could do, as the main action will come in the final chapters. One thing, please let me know what you think of the Lilia/Clarice sequences. I must admit I particularly like them! In addition, The Snow Building (to my knowledge) doesn't exist. So, without further ado, the next chapter…
This chapter contains a scene of a gory nature.
DAYNIGHT
a Hannibal fanfic by JetNoir
FRIDAY
"Don't say I didn't tell you!" came a quiet but insistent voice at Clarice Starling's ear.
Clarice mumbled something unintelligible, groaned slightly, and turned over on the bright green grass. Slowly she opened her eyes to see light; bright, shining and glorious.
"Come on! I don't have all day you know!" A figure moved over Clarice's face, blocking her view of the sky. Long brown hair and purple glasses told her who it was (apart from the giveaway Russian accent that is).
"Lilia…mumph, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Charming! I am in your head after all!"
Clarice shook her head to try to clear it, and propped herself up on her arms. Lilia knelt until their faces were at the same level.
"If you did that in reality, it will really hurt," said Lilia, "those burns will be nasty."
"Why is it me? Do I have some insane-person magnet on my forehead? Verger, the Chosen, the good Doctor Lecter, even you! Why am I the one to always suffer?"
"Come Clarice, that isn't exactly fair. I may be imaginary, but I still have feelings you know!"
"There's no place like home," muttered Clarice, clicking her heels together, "come on damnit, wake up!"
"As you wish," said Lilia, "but I warn you. You're only in for more pain, dear. Just try and be more careful, okay!"
"Yes," sighed Clarice, "although why I'm trying to console a dream-image of a serial-killer is beyond me." Lilia glared at Clarice and out-stretched her finger: "I'm trying to help you, Clarice. Don't throw it all back in my face!"
Clarice apologised, to which Lilia smiled. The grass, sky, sun, and Lilia all disappeared rapidly. The purple glasses lingered a moment longer, and then vanished as Clarice woke up, for the second day running, screaming.
--
(d a y)
The Hospital
Occupying the bed that District Director Vaughn had laid in twelve hours earlier had a disconcerting effect, not in the least to Vaughn, who was sitting beside Clarice's bedside, himself utterly exhausted.
He was gently nodding off, when he awoke to Clarice screaming.
Snapping awake, he rushed to her side: "Shush, shush, you're safe. Clarice, you are safe. You're okay, you're in the hospital, you're safe."
Clarice breathed heavily, and choked back sobs. It took a few moments, but she managed to get her cries of panic under control.
"Have you got them?" she asked.
"The Chosen? No, not yet. We're working on everything we've got. No luck yet. Probably the opposite."
"Opposite of what?"
"Luck," Vaughn said, "I've never known anything like it. This is a domestic terror group, who have in less than a week, created one of the greatest furores in the United States, in recent memory. Have you actually seen the news? Every major news network is leading with the story, and of course you are a major story, what with your history."
"Well, what with being shot at, beaten, burned, and being unconscious, I haven't generally been watching much television."
"Sorry," said Vaughn, "but we are reaching out limits. How are we meant to get these people?"
Vaughn's thoughts were intruded by Clarice's stomach growling extremely loudly.
"Hungry?" asked Vaughn.
"Ravenous."
"Well, it's nowhere near meal-time. I'll order takeout. Chinese?"
Clarice nodded gratefully.
--
The Dry Motel; City Limits of Chicago
Despite the light of day, Room 13 was in a state of perpetual twilight. Inside, two men and one woman stand around a phone, switched to speakerphone. One man, with a British accent, a thick beard, and pale blue eyes; was talking to an electronically disfigured voice.
"You have done well my Chosen."
"Thankyou gracious Leader. Phase five is over, and we are now progressing into the endgame."
"Good. Keep me informed." The phone clicked off.
"Right," said the bearded man, "you heard. We progress to final stage."
--
The Hospital
Clarice slurped up the last of the mushrooms and noodles, and quickly traded it for another carton. Her chopsticks clicked and clacked as she and Vaughn wolfed down the food. From the amount of carton scattered about, you would have assumed it was a feast for ten people - however the two of them were quickly getting through it. Neither had eaten much the past five days and it showed.
"Hamilton's heading up the team at the Hotel," said Vaughn, "and we still have tech's sweeping the city for electronic signals."
"The Warehouse," said Clarice, "I never asked. Was anyone hurt?"
"We were bloody lucky. One Agent got concussion…knocked off his feet by the blast; and that's it. The goat confused the hell out of us for a while, and the warehouse doesn't seem to be owned by anyone, it was just being left to rot. Anything that may have been there was obviously destroyed. We've hit a brick wall twenty miles high."
"What about the body?"
"Forensics have yet to get back to me," said Vaughn, "apparently they're having major difficulties. Of what kind, I don't know. I can do nothing but wait on them."
They kept on eating.
--
Around half an hour later, the phone next to the bed started to ring. Clarice put down her chopsticks (she was still eating, but at a slower rate), and picked it up.
"Special Agent Starling? I'm Marla, the receptionist. There's a man on for you; he wouldn't give his name. Should I put him through?"
Clarice frowned: "Sure." There was a click.
"Is this Clarice? Hello Clarice." The familiar words made her sit up.
"Who is this?" demanded Starling, "Who are you."
"A friend. My name isn't important. I represent a certain party, which has a vested interest in your survival. I am willing to disclose certain information regarding the domestic terrorist group called The Chosen, at eleven thirty tonight. Be at The Snow Building, thirteenth floor, by the elevator. Come alone."
"How do I know to trust you? Why should I?"
"You shouldn't trust me." He hung up.
"What was that about?" asked Vaughn, and Clarice told him.
"Secret societies, mysterious informants. This is turning into a bad spy novel," sighed Vaughn.
"Yeah," said Clarice, "tell me about it."
Her eyes fell on an unopened fortune cookie, the last on the napkin they were spread on.
"Eat it," said Vaughn, so Clarice picked it up with a smile and cracked it open. Slowly chomping on the biscuit, she unwrapped the message, and her eyes opened when she saw the message.
It read: Never forget, that in your suffering, you are never alone…
(n i g h t)
13th Floor; The Snow Building
Eleven thirty. Clarice was waiting outside the elevator, as per the instructions. She swivelled as the doors pinged and opened. So this was the informant,
Clarice took a moment to study him, he was tall, delicate bone structure, dark hair and eyes, yet very masculine. She began to open her mouth, but the man held up a hand:
"Please. Do not waste my precious time on formalities. You may not know my name, or speak for that matter. I work for an organisation for which the, in adverted commas, 'Chosen', have become a thorn in our side. Therefore it is in your best interests to listen. I presume you are bugged, and I noticed a few FBI guards surrounding the building," Clarice nodded, "good. That simplifies matters. I do not know why they wish to kill or harm you, that is in the mind of the Leader. All we know is that his name is Lawrence Day, and he is based in New York, nothing else. Of the three situated in Chicago, the cell leader is Dennis Hyde, former British Army, dishonourable discharged. The woman is Angela Carey, South African, a part of Apartheid. She seeming skipped the country in the early nineties. The final member is Terrence Eddings, a former FBI agent. He'll be in your files. Just remember, these are not the only cell in this country. They may be more gunning for you."
There was a loud sound that seemed to come from a few floors down.
"Blast," the man murmured, "right, Starling, you're on your own. Don't follow me." He got back in the elevator, and pressed the ground floor button.
"You got that?" asked Starling to her wire, and a response from Vaughn came into her earpiece, while Clarice watched the elevator light go down the numbers:
"Yeah, I got it. Especially the bit about Terrence Eddings. He used to work out of the Chicago office, I knew him, and he was a nasty piece of work. I can't believe that he's behind this though…or rather, part of it-" He stopped talking. The Elevator stopped on the second floor - and stayed there.
"Vaughn? Vaughn! What's going on."
"There's a body…damnit Clarice, it's an ambush! FBI down! Get me an ambulance! FBI down! Clarice, get the hell out of there!"
Clarice needed no second bidding, drawing her gun, and stealthily heading for the stairs.
Opening the doors, she checked the stairs up and down, pistol outstretched, before slowly working her way downwards. Past 8, then 5, Clarice encountered no resistance. But the door to floor 2 was open, an outstretched hand laid across the floor stopping the door from closing. Clarice inched the door open, and fell back as a wave of nausea passed over her.
The informant lay dead on the floor, a hole through his head, and a mixture of blood, bone, and brain matter sticking to the door. He had been shot while trying to escape.
Knowing there was nothing she could do for him now, she gingerly closed the door, and crouching continued her way to the ground floor.
There was no-one in the lobby, as Clarice peeped through the door, so she slipped through, and quickly made her way to the glass exit. Surely it couldn't be this easy.
"MURDERER!" the scream, which Clarice recognised as the female Chosen - now identified as Angela Carey - to her horror. Unable to help herself, she slowly spun around, to see a huge gun (what a film noir would call a hand cannon) pointed at her. Carey squeezed off two shots in quick succession, which somehow missed her, shattering the glass with an ear-splitting roar.
Clarice ducked, and fell into the street, her gun held out behind her firing blindly at Carey.
Picking herself off the floor, she dove down the street. Vaughn was nowhere to be seen, and Clarice prayed that they hadn't got to him.
The seconds ticked up to midnight, and the running battle continued, street after street after street. Clarice, lost, completely cut off and alone, fighting for her life, spotted a corner ahead.
With gunshots exploding all around her, Special Agent Clarice Starling threw herself around the corner and kept on running…
Note: What else can I say but To Be Continued… I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, 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