Smoothing back his golden tuft of hair, the reporter broke into a smile as white snowflakes drifted from the cloudy Brussels sky. The streets were crowded with locals and tourists alike, frantically busying themselves with last-minute shopping for the holidays. Cars sped past him as he stuck his tongue out, catching the snow as it melted in his mouth. He stared up at the sky as the snow fell lightly upon his face and swallowed slowly.

He entered a narrow lane, one which barely allowed two small automobiles to travel side by side. A phone booth stood deserted on the side, it's sign flickering to the beat of it's own free will. Very few were down this path, but one man caught his attention. He was of good height but skinny to the bone. A black sweater wrapped his upper body, brown corduroy pants hanging loosely on his legs. His face showed deep signs of aging, stubble growing on his chin. The reporter estimated the man to be approximately 155 lbs, mid-fifties, and a previous childhood injury, causing him to walk with a slight drag. But the reporter wasn't paying attention to the man himself, after all it was his second nature to produce very accurate observations. No, the reporter was listening to what the man was saying.

"Express, express, read the Daily Reporter! Read all about the famed opera singer Bianca Castiafiore preforming for the Queen of England. New updates on the struggle of power in San Theodoros! Read about Belgian reporter Tintin's adventures at the International Astronautical Congress!"

The reporter chuckled, pacing towards the man, until he fell into step with him. "Pardon me, how much for a paper?"

"10 cent," The newspaper vendor replied, shrugging off his bag, taking a clean bunch of news and handing it to the reporter. The vendor stood still for a moment, eyeing the reporter before whispering. "Aye, you Tintin?"

"I am," the reporter replied, coming eye to eye with the vendor.

"The name's Berkley," He said, sticking out a callused hand to shake. Tintin shook, before reaching into his pocket for the ten cent. "I've heard many tales about you, son. Quite the lad, traveling the world, solving em' mysteries."

"Well, my adventure days are over, Berkley. Not muchs' happenin' 'nymore." Tintin responded, tucking the newspaper under his arm. He nodded towards Berkley, but before he could turn around, a whisper stopped him.

"Aye, I'm not too sure 'bout that mister. You hear quite a bit where I work, and the word's going 'round that a man, Rastapopoulos, I believe, is in for another trial."

"What?! That's preposterous! Absolute nonsense! I saw the judge sentence him to life!" Tintin voiced, a level of urgency bubbling inside him. On all of his travels around the world, Robert Rastapopulous was by far the worst man he had ever come face to face with. He was the head of an international opium cartel, in charge of an African-based slave trade and the murder and kidnapping of many famous leaders and business people. It was fair to say that Rastapopoulos wanted Tintin's head on a silver platter for busting up all of his crimes.

Tintin stood up to his full height, fixing his eyes on Berkley. "Are you absolutely sure?"

"Ah–couldn't be too sure, son, maybe my mind's playin' tricks–" Berkley voice faltered as he began fiddling his thumbs, his eyes now meeting anywhere but the reporter. Tintin's eyes narrowed, forcing Berkley to make contact, beads of sweat dropping down his forhead. "I–I'm just a low worker, sir. You'll hafta understand if I can't–"

"Berkley, out with it!" Tintin, who prided himself on a calm demenour, was at the tip of losing himself. "Tell me what you heard."

Berkley's eyes were wide with fear. His skinny fingers were at the point of dropping the bundle of newspapers he was carrying. "I have a wife and kids. Sir, please. They'll find me. I swore to 'em not to speak. I did."

Tintin took a breath and told himself to calm down. This was common, a barbaric form of blackmailing to keep secrets in. Pressure the victim into not telling by threatning their family. But what Berkley had heard, was of utmost importance. He wouldn't let this slip out of his grasp. "I understand, Berkley, I do. They told you not to speak, or they'd come after your family."

Berkley nodded, a wave of relief flashing through his eyes. "Yes, sir. Thank you sir. I'll be on my way. No! Keep the ten cent sir, g'day. Good day!"

"Hold on, Berkley, we're not finished." Tintin grabbed Berkley's shoulder and felt his muscles tense. Relaxing his grip, Tintin stood to face him. "No one's here, no one knows where you are. Do you see anyone suspicious in this lane?" Tintin gestered around him.

Berkley swiveled his head rapidly, sweat staining his face. He timidly replied, "No sir."

"Good, that means you can tell me everything you heard. Alright?" Tintin smiled. "Rastapopoulos is a terrible man. If he gets loose, we'll be as good as dead."

Berkley swallowed painfully, nodding his head. "You see sir, I work at the Daily Reporter, just south of the flea market. I was running late, pickin' up the papers that had to be delivered for the mornin'. I stopped by the printin' press, because I heard some noises. You see, usually everyone's gone from that room, picking up the latest news from 'round the city."

"Yes, yes, go on," Tintin impatiently tapped his foot, irritation clear on his face. "What happened next?"

"I opened the door, just a tiny bit, so I could hear everythin' the voices were chattin' 'bout. Was somethin' like a debate. There were two men, arguing hard and fast. One of 'em said somethin' like 'Rastapopoulos is gonna be released, because they tampered with the evidence' and the other man was doubtful saying they'd be caught. The first man said they'd done a real good job of hiding the real evidence and that their plan could get into action."

"Did you hear the plan? What did they say?" Tintin's excitement rose, a fierce urge to pump his fist in the air.

Berkley seemed visibly relaxed now, "A plan–yes. There's an antique, from a real old ship, that'll be on auction soon. The men plan to buy that antique so damn high that nobody'd be able to get it."

"Where's the antique Berkley?"

"I dunno sir. The generator started going at that time, I only caught a few words before they found me."

"What did you hear?"

"Well, there's that ship, it has something to do with a unicorn," Berkley scratched his head. "And the antique is in some Hall, Marlin–" Suddenly, a shot rang through the air as Berkley froze, his eyes widening. Tintin raised his eyebrows, but before he could react, Berkley went limp, and fell back to the hard ground.