Disclaimer: Tintin is a national treasure; of course I don't own him.
Takes place during Destination Moon.
It was cold, the bare rock wall neither radiating heat nor affording protection from the night breeze. In the valley below, lights twinkled from the clustered buildings, their winking brightness promising warmth, quiet, shelter, a soft bed, and everything else the hunter lacked. He hunkered down, a thin blanket and furry companion his only safeguard against the chill night air and numbing damp of early dew.
He waited patiently, his breathing shallow and silent. The growing dusk gave way to creeping dark as night slowly engulfed both valley and mountains. All was quiet, the passage of time slowed nearly to a standstill through the long hours of unhurried darkness. Still the hunter waited, unmoving, listening for he knew not what. The moon rose, a thin cresecent that cast a sickly glow over the mountains, bathing the cliff face in eerie half-light. Somewhere an owl hooted and a rush of bat's wings flitted through the still air. Close by, a stone clattered as it slid down the rough surface.
The hunter sat up, muscles tensed and breath bated, every sense on edge. As he watched, a wraith-like shadow detached itself from the rocks below and began to climb, gliding up the jagged wall with practiced skill. It stopped often, blending into the rocks and disappearing like some giant fiendish chameleon. When it reached the hidden ledge below the ventilator it straightened up, growing and elongating into the shape of a man, his head adorned with a strange, rounded cap. The stranger approached the ventilator, a hand rising to receive something from within. The hunter stood then, his finger already on the trigger.
"Hands up!" he shouted.
A gun-shot rang off the rocks, shattering the silence into crystalline fragments, and the hunter fell as the darkness once again claimed its own.