Because writing Clarice and Hannibal is my only weakness. This is going to be a long story, so buckle in. This chapter is just to really set this shit up for some serious Hannibal and Clarice shenanigans.

Squad Alpha, comprised of the most note-worthy agents the force had to offer, pulled themselves together in the back of a cramped van.

Beside the door sat Clarice Starling doing her last minute checklist; a ritual she had started on her first raid and just never gave up. She patted every part of her body; gun, bulletproof vest, ear piece, and tightly tied combat boots. All check. With one hand on the door, she looked to her fellow raid leader; Donald Clarke.

"Ready for the show, Starling?" He asked, a happy go lucky look upon his face.

"I'm always ready," she laughed, turning her attention to the rest of her team ", listen folks. This should go off without a hitch as long as no one makes any rookie mistakes. We've been casing this house for human trafficking for months and we can tell they aren't ready for an FBI raid. Let's get in there and make some good arrests and save those girls." Her tone was strict, as always.

She could have sworn she heard a muffled 'bitch' comment from the back of a van, but she didn't have time for that. If they wanted to call her a bitch for being the best at her job, let them.

"Alright. Charleston, Marion, and Peck, you're at the back door. Shaw, I need you on the west side and Falton on the east. Myself and Clarke will cover the front. Don't forget, we have snipers on two houses out there, so if we have a runner or two, we're covered. On my signal, we storm in the house. Turn your communicators on now and let's get into position." Clarice and Clarke each took a door and flung it open, directing the team down the street.

The two leaders followed down the street, a handful of feet behind their mates, being sure to stay under the protection of the trees. Clarice heard a soft click from beside her and a quick glance proved it was her partner turning off his radio.

"So Starling, if we're done this raid, paper work and all, by five... want to nab a few drinks with me?" Donald Clarke, Clarice's second dearest agent and friend, behind Ardelia of course, asked her with a nudge of his elbow. She clicked off her radio and didn't turn to him while she spoke.

"You already know my policy on that, Don." She smiled.

"I get not wanting to shit where you eat. But really? We work for the FBI, we don't have time for normal dates, let alone civilian dates. Let me treat you to a few drinks, no pressure and no expectations." He prodded. Clarice had to hand it to him, he'd make a great negotiator.

Clarice felt her mind stray into a dark alley; the thirty seconds of every day she reserved just for him. She couldn't allow her thoughts to linger, but she had enough time to think about just how entertained he'd be to have this man asking her out. Quickly, she shoved him away; she could use the remaining twenty three seconds on him later.

"Maybe," she teased ", only if we're done by five." She set her terms and flicked her radio back on. Clarke followed suit, a smug yet sweet smile smeared upon his face.

As the house came into view, they entire team crouched and fled to their positions. Each member individually confirmed their location and that they were ready to go. When everyone checked in, Clarice took a deep breath in.

"On my mark. One... two... three."

The silent and seemingly innocent suburb erupted with the noises of kicked in doors and screaming. The young men, clearly new to the trafficking game, collapsed on the floor immediately. Clarke and two other members of the team stayed to detain them, while Clarice and the rest went to clear the house.

"Four men," Clarke called ", all but one player under surveillance is here. Keep watch."

Clarice took note, conducting her team to the upper floor. They cleared each room with ease, nothing of interest turning up. Once it was cleared to her standards, she took them downstairs. She went first, her gun at the ready.

Her footfalls echoed in the concrete ground and she game face to face with a cage full of girls, none of whom could be over the age of sixteen. They were sweating, cut up, bruised, and crying. As the armoured agents jogged past her, the girls started to scream for help.

"Send them straight to Agent Andrea Marion and Agent Melina Falton. They'll be more comfortable and will open up to fellow women. They should already be waiting in the alleyway beside the house with blankets in van number six." She directed her agents, doing a quick walk around, offering what support she could to the mass of afraid young ladies.

As the basement was starting to really clear out, the deafening silence hit her hard. She couldn't imagine what it was like to be stuck down here, each of those girls just as broken as the last, and while they may have prayed for freedom, they hoped for death.

Clarice shook it off, chalking it up as a victory for the good guys before heading back up stairs behind the last few girls. She barely had on foot on the steps before she heard rustling, coming from the wall just beside the cages. Clarice stopped and stood very still, eyes fixated on the wall and waiting to hear the noise again.

And there it came again; a slight shuffle and then a very quiet cough.

"Clarke, when you have a moment, come to the basement." She spoke through the radio while pulling the holstered gun into her capable hands. She approached the wall the way a cat would approach a mouse; with calculated movements, her eyes unmoving from that damned piece of wall.

When she was close enough, she started pawing at the wall with her left hand. She pressed at every single stone and prodded every bump and groove. To her surprise, one of the blocks actually clicked in.

"People still have secret passage ways. Who knew?" She mumbled to herself, ready to push the door to see who was there. But the assailant beat her to the punch.

A man, who had at least a buck fifty on Clarice, yanked the secret door open. Before she could even think of pulling the trigger, he used his weight and height against her. The man forced his hands against her shoulders, giving her a rough push. His strength alone caused the gun to fly from her hands and she found herself at his whim.

His rough hands forced their way around her neck, Clarice's arms not long enough to swing and hit the man. He slammed her against the opposite wall, her head making a dull thud upon impact. When she opened her eyes after the first wave of assault, her vision was clouded in a milky film. She could see a shaded figure, clearly her attacker, but anything beyond him was a grey blob.

Clarice screamed out, throwing a few fists as she did, in hopes of attracting enough attention that the man would try to run. She heard her attacker growl, and before she knew what was happening, she was picked up and tossed on the floor. Clarice tried to break her fall; the most basic, simple maneuver in the book. Without her sight, she couldn't see how close the ground was.

She hit the floor, her head taking another hit against concrete. She heard Clarke scream something; Clarice knew they were words, but she couldn't put them together. The adrenaline of the whole situation began to fade and the pain that racked her body was too much. Clarice didn't want to sleep, but the pain was beginning to nag away at every nerve in her body. She passed out before she could have another thought.

When she opened her eyes, her vision still had traces of a milky cloud, but at least she could see. Her senses came alive as if someone was holding a gun to their head. She felt the oxygen mask laced across her face, every single needle in her body and every single place they failed to get a vain. She groaned, loudly and unashamed, looking around to get a footing on her surroundings.

A woman in pink kitten scrubs walked through her door, a happy look upon her face.

"Well, it's good to see your up," She gasped happily walking towards Clarice ", can you tell me what your name is, dear? Do you know where you are?" The nurse lifted her lift up to Clarice's eyes, seemingly happy with how they reacted.

"Clarice Starling," her voice was hoarse and dry ", I'm in a hospital. I work for the FBI."

"Very good!" The nurse sang, grabbing a small plastic cup of water from the bedside table. Clarice took slow sips through the straw, a second wind coming over her as soon as the water hit her tongue.

"What happened?"

"You were attacked and your head took quite the beating. There's no permanent damage, but you did manage to get quite a few bruises. When the back of your head was hit, you bruised the part of the brain that focuses on vision, so you might be seeing blurry or cloudy sights for the next week! That'll heal on its own, so don't panic." The nurse took a seat at the foot of her bed, offering a smile that just seemed too big to be real.

"Oh."

"Yeah. I know, being passed out can leave you feeling more drained than ever, but I need to do one quick test with you!"

"That's fine." Clarice took another sip of water, her throat aching with every swallow. The man who attacked her really choked the shit out of her.

"With head trauma like yours, we like to do a little picture test. I want you to look at them and tell me what you see. Sound good?"

"Yeah, sounds good." Clarice used a weak hand to press the elevate button, lifting herself to see the nurse better.

She showed her a wide array of photographs; an apple, a car, and a cell phone was among them. Clarice knew what everything was with no effort at all. The nurse was pleased as punch, pulling out her final, small stack of photos.

"Alright, the final phase. Tell me who these people are."

First, she was shown a picture of the president. Clarice passed that with ease.

Then, she was shown a picture of a man who she couldn't place. Blonde, sort of handsome, defined features. It was a familiar face, for sure, but the name and any distinguishing features escaped her mind.

"Sorry, I can't place that man." Clarice was honest.

The nurse's happy façade fell in an instant.

"Hm. I see. Interesting… here, take a look at this one."

It was a picture of a blonde woman, with short cropped hair. Her lips were painted red and her eyes were bright green. Again, the face was familiar, but everything else about them was coming up blank.

"No, I don't recognize her either. What's the point of this test?" Clarice prodded, a nervous feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Well, the two pictures I just showed you," the nurse was grumbling, searching for the right words ", the pictures… well. The test is designed to identify any… memory issues in those who suffered moderate to severe head trauma. The pictures were of Agent Donald Clarke and Agent Gail Peck. They were with you on the raid, in fact, Agent Clarke saved you from any further trauma."

"What does it mean that I can't remember them?" Clarice was green in the face.

"I'm not a doctor, so I can't give you an official diagnosis. But to ease your mind, the symptoms point to trauma induced amnesia."

Yeah, we're going a soap opera cliché.