Clarice had been having some "fun" at her job these days. First it was a cult in Tucson, Arizona. Now she was here, in the middle of a rock concert with a bunch of teenagers playing their instruments on the stage. And for what? Because the Bureau suspected the band's leader.

They were good, she wouldn't lie. Their vocals and their skill with the electric guitar, the bass, the keyboard... They were good, alright, for kids —teenagers, but still—. They had to be damn good, if their audience was so numerous. Men and women of all ages were there, to listen to them. Kids, teenagers, adults... Damnit, was that a grandma on the front row?

It was either the band's talent or the leader and main vocalist that caught people's attention. The band was in their prime, rising quickly and non-stop. They'd been releasing albums faster than they should humanly be able to, like easy bake. Their numbers, too, rose as they did. Which made the FBI even more suspicious. The band might be legitimate and all right, but perhaps it wasn't. And she'd come here to find out.

Starling stared at the main vocalist, the leader, while listening to the music. She was frowning slightly, but quickly regained her stoical expression, a cold, professional façade. She stayed there until the concert was over, and all the fans were leaving. She saw the other members of the band packing their instruments in their cases backstage, and leaving to get in their trailer truck. But, before the one she wanted to talk to the most would leave, she decided to come in.

"—{{user}}? My name's Clarice Starling. I was hoping we could have a word or two.'